


Son Of Cain

by SoulfireInc



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Bromance, Dean is a demon for longer than canon, Demon!Dean, Emotional Whump, Gen, Mark of Cain, No Slash, Post-Season/Series 09, Whump, Winchester bros, curse, do you believe in miracles, favourite faces, s10 au, season 10, we keep each other human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 68
Words: 125,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S10 AU, Multiple POVs. While Dean excels at life as a demon, Sam is consumed with his quest to find and save his brother. Meanwhile, a dying Castiel tries once more to save the angels and Heaven, while Metatron continues to scheme. Sam is determined to save Dean, no matter the cost to himself. But the one thing he never considered was the true depths of power the First Blade and Mark of Cain have on his black-eyed brother ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This story was thought up long before S10 aired so 97% of similarities with the new canon are coincidental (read: me being a prophet). The story is complete and is also available on FanFiction.net, check my profile for the link. Huge thank you to ScribeOfRED and InsaneAndHappyAboutIt for the brilliant beta'ing, and to willamholmes (tumblr) for the cover art (aka my new icon)! I would greatly appreciate reviews, so if you have a mo and feel like making my day, please do! If anyone is worried about triggers or has any questions about the story, please feel free to message me, my inbox is always open. Without further ado, I give you Son of Cain! Enjoy!

            “Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”

            Like a bubble breaking the surface of a still lake, Dean Winchester opened his eyes. For a long moment, he stayed motionless as what felt like electricity coursed through him. Power radiated from every cell in his body. He felt strong, whole. The familiar hilt of the First Blade pressed against his palm, his strength flowing effortlessly into it, joining with its power and swirling back up his arm to his chest. Had it always felt this strong? He tightened his grip and the feeling intensified. It was rapture.

He was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, or at least, that’s what he assumed it was. It looked like a ceiling, but how could he see every brush stroke in the paint? How did he know precisely where each hidden wooden support beam lay? He could feel the concrete from where he lay on the bed.

            Slowly, calmly, Dean filled his lungs. The air tasted stale and his mouth of blood. An intoxicating, spicy smell tickled his nostrils as he breathed again. He blinked.

            “Dean.”

            He turned his head – and froze.

            Crowley. He could see Crowley. Not just the meat suit, but the demon inside. He saw how the dark red-black smoke filled every cell of the New Yorker he wore, could see the roiling fire-orange demon move as he shifted his weight to the other foot. He could see Crowley’s face.

            Dean remembered the first time he had seen a demon’s face, hiding behind a police officer outside New Harmony, Indiana. Back then, the burning, twisted thing that only slightly resembled a human’s face had terrified him. For thirty years in Hell the only things he saw apart from his own broken body were the faces of the demons that tortured him. Seeing them had been a torture in itself.

            Crowley’s true face was magnificent. For the first time, Dean understood how the simple crossroads demon became Lilith’s second-in-command and then the King of Hell. Dean could see the power and intelligence in Crowley’s face, in the flashes he glimpsed behind the suddenly comically small and mediocre-looking meat suit. Crowley was – there was no other word for it – handsome.

            “I know, stunning, aren’t I?” Crowley smiled, showing the sharp fangs behind the benign lines of white teeth. “Welcome back, Dean.”

            Dean sat up, noting, as he did so, how effortless and smooth the motion was. Shouldn’t he be stiff? He’d been asleep for ages, hadn’t he?

            No, he hadn’t. He had been with Sam … Metatron had beaten him … stabbed him … He put a hand to his chest as he remembered, feeling the unbroken flesh through the hole in the blood-soaked shirt. He remembered the angelblade piercing his skin, pushing through his sternum as effortlessly as though it were made of sugar glass, penetrating right through his heart, scraping his spine. He remembered the agony, the shock. He remembered seeing Sam’s face fade into the blackness as he died in his arms. _Welcome back._

            Realization sunk like an icy stone into Dean’s stomach. He looked up at Crowley smirking down at him. A prickle of fear tingled up his spine.

            “What did you do to me?” he whispered in a low rasp, waiting to hear the answer he knew was coming.

            Crowley’s smile widened. “What did I do? Nothing. I just returned the Blade to its rightful owner. And told you a little bedtime story,” he added as an afterthought.

            Dean’s brows pulled together. “What? The Blade brought me back?”

            Crowley nodded. “And the Mark. Just like they did with Cain.”

            Dean looked down at the Blade still clasped in his hand. He felt it hum happily in his firm grip. “But I thought …” He swallowed and spoke again, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Cain …”

            He looked back into Crowley’s face – or faces. Panic was mounting in his chest, constricting his heart. Slowly, he rose to his feet in one fluid motion, marvelling again at the unusual lack of aches or stings of old injuries. Ignoring Crowley, he strode over to the sink in the corner and gazed into the small mirror above it. Coldness unlike any he had felt before seeped into every inch of his being as he met his reflection’s gaze.

            Black eyes.

            A demon’s face.

            His face.

            For a moment that contained an eternity, Dean stared at the monster gazing back at him. His eyes were emotionless voids in a face that, underneath the familiar flesh, was smoke and twisted bone and flameless fire. He lifted his fingers to his face and probed his healed cheek experimentally. He felt the soft, warm flesh and stubble instead of the indescribable visage whose texture he couldn’t begin to fathom.

            Through the pain and confusion the monstrous face instilled in him, one thought rang cold and irrevocable through his stunned mind.

            _I am a demon._

            Azazel. Lillith. Abaddon. Ruby. Meg. Crowley. Cain. He was one of them.

            _I_ _’_ _m a demon._

            He blinked, and green eyes replaced the black. He could no longer see the roiling smoke and fire beneath his skin, but his reflection still looked alien to him. He was a monster. Evil incarnate.

            “It’s not that bad, you know,” Crowley said conversationally. “You’re not dead, for one thing. That’s good. All the demon gals are gonna want you – even I’ll admit you’re one of the handsomest demons I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot.” He stepped behind Dean so his face was mirrored beside his. “Oh, and you’re about the most powerful demon in existence.”

            “What?” Dean breathed, finally tearing his eyes away from his reflection to stare at Crowley’s.

            “You’re a demon in his own original meat suit, turned on Earth, not in Hell.” A cunning smile pulled at Crowley’s lips, and his voice lowered to a throaty, longing whisper. “You can’t imagine how strong you are. How does it feel, Dean?”

            Dean blinked and looked down at the sink. How did it feel? To be a demon? It felt horrible, it felt abhorrent, it felt … _amazing_ , a silky voice cooed inside him. He felt the power coursing through him. He felt invincible. Strong. He felt alive. Fiercely, invigoratingly, wonderfully alive.

            He looked down to the Blade still clutched in his hand. He knew with complete certainty that his body could now contain its power. It swirled inside him, ready to be called to action. He glanced to the raised flesh of the Mark on his forearm. Touching it gently with his fingers, it felt a few degrees warmer than he remembered. It felt … more comfortable, somehow. It felt right. Peaceful.

            “It feels …” he began, wondering if the words to truly describe this new feeling existed. “Good,” he finished, somewhat lamely.

            Crowley’s smile widened. “Listen, Dean,” he continued, raising a hand as though to grasp Dean’s forearm, but halting halfway. “Sam’s summoning me, I’ve gotta go. I’ll break it to him gently, eh? Meet you back here and we’ll … chat.”

            “Sam?”

            “Yeah … I’ll be right back, all right? Just … stay here.” He gave Dean one last weighted look before snapping his fingers and blinking out of sight.

            Stunned, Dean looked back to his reflection. He blinked, and the black voids returned. “Sam,” he whispered, and a wrinkle appeared above his nose as his reflection’s eyebrows pulled together.

            The Blade was humming gently in his clenched fist, whispering, calling sweetly for blood. Anticipation swelled in his chest at the promise of a new high. He needed to kill. He _wanted_ to kill.

            Dean allowed himself to feel his new body once more. He’d been wrong. It didn’t feel horrible, or disgusting, or abhorrent. He knew it should but it didn’t. There was no pain anymore. No dull ache of grief for Kevin and all the other friends he’d burned. No desperate desire for a bottle of whiskey. No background throb of the injuries inflicted by Metatron, not even the pain of a bruise in the centre of his chest. Instead he felt a deep calm and sense of peace he had never known, yet with a rumbling thrum of energy waiting beneath it, ready to be released, like an oncoming thunderstorm waiting just behind a clear, blue horizon. It felt euphoric. Rapturous. Exciting.

            And he was just standing there. Imagine how it would feel if he ran, if he fought, if he _killed_.

            His reflection smiled. He wanted to kill.


	2. Next Of Kin

            Crowley appeared in the iron Devil’s Trap three feet in front of Sam. Fury boiled in the hunter’s chest at the sight of him.

            “Hey, Moose,” Crowley greeted, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

            “Save it,” Sam growled. “Dean is dead. You’re the reason he’s –”

            “Upstairs, alive and kickin’? Yeah. You’re welcome.”

            “He – what?”

            “Dean’s alive, Sam.”

            Sam’s mind seemed to freeze. That was impossible. Demons couldn’t bring a soul back without making a deal. Cas wasn’t powerful enough. And demons lie.

            “What are you talking about?” he said petulantly, ignoring how desperately he wanted the words to be true. “I didn’t –”

            “Make a deal? No need.” Crowley shifted his weight confidently. “Given the amount of deals you two –”

            “Crowley!”

            “Right, apologies. You don’t need to make a deal to bring Dean back because Dean wasn’t dead. Well, not all dead,” he added.

            “What are you talking about?” He was too tired for this jargon. How could Dean be alive, just like that? “He died in my arms, Crowley. He’s dead. You’re lying,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, his already thin patience waning.

            “Right. And wrong.” He held up a placating hand as Sam opened his mouth angrily, taking a threatening step forward. “I heard about what happened.”

            “How?”

            “Doesn’t matter. The point is, I went to that factory and I found the Blade. I brought it back to its rightful owner, and Dean woke up.”

            Sam’s mind was slowly grinding back into gear, trying to understand. Hope and blessed relief were swelling traitorously in his chest, along with a prickle of nameless fear. _Please let it be this simple, for once._

            “So … Dean’s … alive? He just … woke up? Just like that?” Hope was battling scepticism, and the weight in his heart seemed to grow heavier. Dead men didn’t just wake up. Not by themselves. Not without a catch. Especially if they were a Winchester.

            Crowley looked down at his shoes as he carefully stepped forward. He stopped at the edge of the Trap and raised his head to meet Sam’s gaze.

            “Yes. But, Sam … It’s not quite that simple. He’s alive. But it was the Blade and the Mark that brought him back.”

            “Meaning what?” _Please no please no please no!_

            “Meaning that Dean is no longer what you’d call … human.”

            Relief froze into fear. Hope became dread.

            “What?” The word was barely audible.

            “He’s a demon, Sam. Like Cain.”

            No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. The fear turned to terror that gripped his heart in an iron grasp. He felt as though he was choking.

            “No. No, he c-can’t…”

            “I’m sorry, Sam. Truly.” Crowley’s eyes were sincere. Sam believed him.

            Terror and confusion and grief coalesced into a storm of rage that thundered through Sam. He strode forward, Ruby’s knife flicking into his palm. He grabbed Crowley’s lapels and dug the edge of the knife into his neck, just deeply enough to draw blood.

            “You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” he growled, his face inches from Crowley’s. “You’re the one who took Dean to Cain. You’re the one who made him take the Mark. You’re the one who made him kill Abaddon. You did this to him!”

            Such was the venom in Sam’s voice that even the King of Hell quailed slightly in his grip, before the fear in his eyes was masked with indignation.

            “Listen, _Moose_ , no one forced Dean to take the Mark. As soon as Cain said it’d kill Abaddon, he was gaggin’ for it!”

            “Fine! Then how do I save him!” The knife pushed deeper into the soft flesh.

            “You can’t!”

            “What?”

            “You can’t, Sam! Dean’s a demon and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can’t cure him, you can’t kill him, and you can’t save him!”

            Sam shook him roughly. “Yes I can – the demon cure! It worked on you, it’ll work on hi-”

            “No it won’t.” The anger had left his voice. “He’s no ordinary demon, Sam. He’s not even a Knight of Hell. The only word for what he is is Cain because he’s the only other person – creature – in existence like him. That demon cure, powerful as it may be, is not gonna work on Dean because he’s not just a demon. He’s far more. It’s not gonna be that simple, Sam.”

            Sam stared into Crowley’s eyes for a long moment, considering. He saw no lie in Crowley’s gaze. Not that that meant much. He shoved him away, forcing him to stumble.

            “My brother is a demon.”

            “My condolences.”

            Sam shot him a murderous glare.

            He looked down to the knife in his hands. More to distract himself than anything, he pulled the still bloody bandana from his pocket and wiped Crowley’s blood off the shining metal. Onto Dean’s.

            “I should kill you.” His voice was low and deadly.

            “Probably,” Crowley replied conversationally. Sam didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”

            Slowly, Sam looked up from the blood-soaked cloth. His eyes were dead and full of hate, and for the second time in less than ten minutes, the King of Hell suppressed a fearful shudder that only a Winchester could inspire.

            “You might be useful.” Sam turned and walked slowly away, his shoulders set and his back straight.

            “Wait, you can’t just leave me here!” Crowley roared. “I saved your brother!”

            Sam paused in the doorway. Briefly, he considered spinning round and throwing the knife into the demon’s chest. But no. He had bigger problems. He might need this knife when he met Dean. Suppressing a shudder at that abhorrent thought, Sam flicked the lights off.

            “Watch me.”

 

*****

 

            Sam was almost surprised how little time it took him to reach Dean’s room. It seemed for every ounce of trepidation weighing down his heart, his legs carried him faster and faster.

            He slowed when he reached the door, afraid of what he would find inside. His chest heaving with exertion and fear, he stepped over the threshold.

            The room was empty.

            No Dean. No dead brother lying in his bed.

            So Crowley wasn’t lying about that part, at least.

            He turned to leave, but stopped. Something on the floor had caught his eye, and he stepped forward cautiously. It was a small square of white paper. With a sinking feeling, he picked it up and turned it over, knowing what image he would see on the other side.

            Dean and their mother, smiling in front of the home Sam had never known.

            _Oh no._ Sam’s heart sunk lower.

            Placing the photograph carefully in its place beside the lamp, he took a deep, fortifying breath, and jogged out of the room in search of his lost brother.


	3. Bye Bye Baby, Baby Goodbye

Dean felt better outside, away from the demon warding and in the first light of a new dawn. It was as though a slight pressure had been lifted from his chest. It was disconcerting though, being only a few feet away from the front door of the bunker he knew was there, and yet not feel it. He could feel in his mind the spaces around him: the curve of the rolling hills, the shape of the Impala parked haphazardly behind him. Where the bunker should be, however, according to this new sense, did not exist. It was weird.

            He walked over to the old car and laid a hand gently on the hood. He could feel the warding in the trunk from here, almost like a magnetic charge, repelling him warningly. He could smell and see the blood on the passenger seat. His, he assumed.

            He loved this car. Truly, he did. She was the closest thing to a home he had ever known. She had always been there. She’d saved their necks more than once, too.

            Like remembering his brother earlier, he felt no emotional response to the sight or feel of the car he’d rebuilt twice, the car he’d grown up in. He knew he had loved it, but right now, like with Sam, he couldn’t think why.

            Besides, he didn’t need it anymore.

            The bunker door flew open and Dean heard the heavy footsteps of his younger brother crunch on the gravel. He was breathing heavily. Dean tensed.

            “Dean?”

            He straightened, taking his hand off the old car. The Blade surged in his hand and he gripped it tighter, telling it to wait. He didn’t want to kill Sam.

            Dean took a deliberate step back, away from the Impala, as Sam approached and the younger hunter stopped several feet away, looking wary. His eyes were ringed with red and he looked exhausted, drained.

            “Sam.”

            “Crowley said …” His voice trailed off as he stared at Dean. “You’re alive,” he whispered, his face lighting up with joy. Did he not know?

            Dean smiled. “I guess that’d depend on what you mean by ‘alive’.”

            As he watched his little brother’s face fall, Dean blinked, revealing the black voids. He watched Sam’s reaction carefully.

            Shock. Fear. Anger. Grief.

            The Blade in Dean’s hand began to hum more insistently, calling for blood. Dean glanced down at it, realizing it wouldn’t wait – it wanted Sam’s blood.

            “I-It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said, his trembling voice catching slightly. He stepped forward, slowly, his hands raised placatingly. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll make you human again, I promise.” He swallowed hard, taking another slow step towards Dean.

            The Blade hummed more fiercely, demanding to taste the human’s blood. “There’s nothing to figure out, Sam.” Dean smiled easily, taking another step away from his brother and the car. “I’m a demon.” He paused. “A powerful one.”

            Sam stopped in his tracks, staring at Dean. Horror filled his eyes at the faint note of pride that had crept into Dean’s tone.

            Dean turned, spinning on one foot away from his brother and the car that had been their home their whole lives. The strength was still coursing through him. He needed to use it, release it. Test his limits ... if he had any.

            “Dean?”

            “Sorry, Sam,” Dean called over his shoulder as he sauntered away, his voice casual and cheery. “But I gotta go.”

            “Dean! Don’t leave!”

            The intensity of Sam’s cry made Dean turn around. Sam’s eyes were wild, on the edge of panic. He didn’t understand.

            “You can’t be around me, Sam,” Dean explained, shifting his weight restlessly as the Blade began to vibrate in his hand.

            “Why? Because you’re a demon? Because you’re dangerous? What about me when I was chugging demon blood, huh? I was dangerous; you stayed with me. I’m not leaving you, Dean.”

            Dean considered him a moment. His words were fervent, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his tired, fierce eyes. He wanted to save him. He wanted him to stay. But he didn’t get it. Dean didn’t need him anymore. Sam would only get in the way.

            Dean remembered every time Sam had run away from his family. To Six Flags, to Stanford, to Ruby … He remembered when he himself had run away, to say yes to Michael, and Sam had brought him back. Running away had never been the right choice, for either of them. But this time it was different. The Blade was still calling for Sam’s blood, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. His hand was shaking. For all they had been through together, because they were family, Dean had to get away from Sam.

            “Well, I am.”

            “What?” Sam gasped, incredulous.

            “I’m leaving you.” He turned to go.

            “Dean! You’re my brother! Just give me time; I can fix this, I swear! We can figure this out, together!”

            Dean turned his head slowly and fixed Sam with a cold stare. He saw Sam suppress a shiver. The power of the Blade surged through him. When he spoke, his voice was certain. “Your brother is dead, Sam. And I don’t need you.”

            He took another step away and paused. He looked over to the sleek black car, waiting for the next hunt. He wouldn’t be needing that anymore. And he didn’t want Sam following him. _Besides,_ he thought, as he raised a hand to the vehicle. _It_ _’_ _s my car. A hunter_ _’_ _s car. And I_ _’_ _m not a hunter anymore._

            As his hand rose to the height of his shoulder, so did the car, rising to hover a few inches above the grassy, gravely ground. Sam gasped, jumping back, but Dean ignored him. His attention was focused completely on the metals before him. He could feel every speck of it. Every stitch in the upholstery, every groove in the tires, everything but the weapons hidden in the trunk.

            “I won’t be needing this anymore,” he muttered absent-mindedly, and clenched his fist tight. The air was filled with the sound of screeching metal as the car buckled, the invisible force of Dean’s will crushing the frame, bending the doors. The windows shattered and there was a loud bang as one of the tires burst.

            Dean’s lips curved up in a smile that looked slightly manic and did not reach his still-black eyes. He lowered his hand and the twisted lump that had once been Dean Winchester’s car dropped unceremoniously to the ground and rocked itself into stillness. He glanced to Sam, who was staring in disbelief at the unrecognizable ruin of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala. He looked up, horrified, at Dean, who was still smiling that strange smile.

            “Goodbye, Sam,” he called in an alien voice that matched the smile as he raised his hand once more, and, as he had seen Crowley do so many times before, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, he was gone, leaving the man that had once been his brother alone beside a pile of junk that had once been his home.


	4. “Guardian” Angel

            Dean Winchester was dead.

            And it was his fault.

            Castiel sat in Metatron’s office, at his desk, staring at the now-empty typewriter in front of him. It was so obvious in hindsight: of course the Tablet had been there, of course that was how Metatron was tapping into its power. It should have been the first place he looked. It was so obvious.

            But he hadn’t found the Tablet in time, and now Dean Winchester was dead.

            He remembered vividly the moment he had finally reached Dean in Hell. He hadn’t known the man butchering the screaming soul, and had he not had his orders, he might have been tempted to leave him to burn. But the fear in the broken man’s eyes had captivated Castiel, and he knew that every cut the eldest Winchester boy made only added to his own torment. The hideous sneer on his face was a lie. He had been tortured for three decades and yet his soul still shone. Perhaps not as brightly as it had once done, but Castiel had known this desecrated man deserved to be saved, regardless of Heaven’s orders. And so he had reached out his hand and gripped the young man’s shoulder with all his strength, and together they rose out of the flames and the screams and the darkness, into the light.

            _Dean Winchester is saved._

            He had cried the words with pride and joy for every angel to hear, and for the first time in centuries, no other words were heard nor spoken. Hope had been returned to the angels. Dean Winchester was saved.

            _“Ahh … so Gadreel bites the dust. And the Angel Tablet – arguably the most powerful instrument in the history of the universe – is in pieces and for what again? Oh, that’s right. To save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right? I mean, you draped yourself in the flag of heaven, but ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right? Well, guess what? He’s dead, too.”_

            The words galloped around and around through Castiel’s mind, getting heavier and heavier with each repetition. It didn’t matter that Metatron’s voice had been magnified on the angel radio, or that the words themselves had been spoken softly; for Cas, they were more absolute than anything he had ever heard.

            _“He’s dead, too.”_

            Dean Winchester is dead.

            Cas sunk forward in the armchair, covering his face in his hands, collapsing in on himself. He should have found the Tablet sooner. He had failed. Again.

            More intensely than ever before, Castiel wished he could be a true angel again. To have big, strong wings to fly away and find Dean in Heaven, to have the power to bring him back, to not feel.

            The space in his chest that had always been filled like a lake by his Grace was smaller now, depleted. He knew the stolen Grace was killing him. It wouldn’t be long now. A few months maybe, if he didn’t use his powers. He knew he should care more that his life was drawing to a – hopefully – final close, but he simply … didn’t.

            But that did not mean he was going to give up.

            Heaven still had to be saved. Billions of souls waited in agony in the Veil, lost, confused, and very afraid. Hundreds of angels were still wandering, equally devastated, longing to return home, away from the strangeness that was humanity. Even the angels in Heaven weren’t safe yet. They were effectively trapped, wingless, and with a moving portal none but Metatron knew how to operate. They could not return to their task until Heaven was reopened.

            And each of them was looking to Castiel to show them how to do it. Expecting him to remind them of their long forgotten purpose.

            A weight settled itself onto Cas’s shoulders, seeming to mock the missing pressure of his broken wings. He did not want to lead. Never before had he so wished he could just follow someone else’s orders, let someone else decide his fate and the fate of every other angel. He wished he had someone to tell him what to do.

            For a long moment, Cas just sat there, hunched over with his palms pressed painfully against his closed eyes. Eventually, with a deep sigh, he straightened and turned to rise from the chair.

            The sight that greeted him threatened to push him back down onto it.

            Metatron’s blade was lying at the edge of the desk, covered in Dean’s blood.

            _He’s dead, too._

            Cas closed his eyes against the fresh wave of shame and grief and guilt. His life was a catalogue of failures, of misplaced trust and betrayals. The one man who had always stood by him, forgiven him his unforgivable crimes, the man who had taught him what family truly was ... was dead. Cas couldn’t bring him back. He couldn’t even pass into the Veil to find his soul, to deliver it from the confusion and pain of the ancient Doorway and into the safe paradise of his perfect, angelless, Heaven. He could never beg his forgiveness for letting him down yet again.

            Castiel’s heart was no stranger to pain. It had hardened and shrunk behind carefully constructed walls to cope with each new scar. But his heart had never hurt so badly. Not when he rebelled against the only family he had ever known, not when he learned his Father had abandoned him, not when he realised the carnage he had wrought in Heaven and on Earth with the souls from the Poisoned Garden, not each minute spent in Purgatory hating himself for his crimes, not when Metatron tricked him into sealing Heaven. It was as though each past agony had been resurrected by this new failure and coalesced into a burning ache so acute and endless he wondered how the muscle continued to beat.

            Oh, what wouldn’t he give to feel nothing? To feel hollow? To feel anything but this boundless agony that was worse than any torture?

            To be an angel again.

            Taking a deep breath, Cas opened his eyes and picked up the weapon that had been used to kill the best friend he had ever known. He wiped the dried blood from it slowly with a discarded handkerchief, and stowed it carefully in his coat. He would not allow himself to forget this newest mistake, or the pain it rightly caused him.


	5. Potential

Dean thudded into the hard ground and fell to his knees, coughing up thick, dark blood. There was a sharp pain in his chest, like a really, _really_ bad stitch. He gasped in a desperate breath, which made the pain flare angrily. Before he could fill his lungs, his abdomen tightened, doubling him over as a new bout of coughing started, more blood bubbling up his throat and spilling out over his lips. What the hell had happened?

            “Crowley!” Dean croaked between coughs. He sucked in another, deeper breath and focused, using the Blade’s calm to centre his mind on what he needed. “Crowley!” he roared, and his eyes filled with blackness.

 

*****

 

            Crowley paced the perimeter of the Devil’s Trap slowly as his thoughts raced. He’d forgotten this bloody Trap. And he was certainly not willing to spend another few months stuck in this desperately boring cell. Not to mention the effect that’d have on Hell. So, how was he going to get out?

            He was still pondering the best solution to that particular issue when the dungeon door burst open. Sam thundered through, the demon knife clutched firmly in his right hand. Crowley stopped his pacing and raised his hands as though to deflect the oncoming attack.

            “Easy now, Moose,” he began cautiously, wondering what the hell could’ve happened to make the hunter’s eyes look so … ancient.

            Sam stopped at the edge of the Trap, his stance coiled like a spring, ready for action. “You are going to tell me everything, _everything_ , you know about Cain and the Mark,” he snarled.

            Crowley could almost feel the anger and hatred radiating off the man standing less than a metre from him. His brows scrunched as he tried to discern the haunted eyes that were staring daggers into him. He hadn’t expected Sam to take his brother’s demonization all that well, but this … this was frightening. Crowley was almost … concerned. Almost.

            “You alright, Moose?” Okay, so he was mildly concerned.

            Sam exhaled in an aggrieved parody of a laugh. “Oh yeah. I’m just peachy. Get talking.”

            “Where’s Dean?”

            Sam bristled. “Gone.”

            Bollocks.

            “Gone?”

            “Yeah. Gone.”

            That didn’t make sense. “He just … left you?” he clarified.

            “Yes, Crowley, he just left me! Right after crushing the Impala, that is.” Sam’s voice had lost its venom.

            Oh bollocks. Even he knew how much that old banger meant to the Winchesters.

            “He just vanished.”

            “What!” Crowley exclaimed in disbelief. He could teleport? Already?

            Sam looked up at him and both his eyes and tone had regained a steely edge. “He is a demon after all.”

            Even saying the words was clearly painful. Crowley almost – _almost_ – felt sorry for the poor kid.

            “Which is why,” Sam continued, “I need to know everything there is to know about Cain.”

            Crowley smiled confidently. “Well, I’d be happy to tell you all I know, in exchange for … what? Out of this Trap, for starters.”

            “In exchange for me not killing you. Slowly.”

            “Huh. Not much of a deal, mate –”

            “I’m not making a deal, Crowley! You’re gonna give me the information I need or I will kill you. There’s no way out of that Trap. Either you’re going to help me get Dean out of this mess, or you’re going to die. And don’t think Dean’s the only one who knows how to make someone suffer – I spent over a year with Satan, remember.”

            That was a very pregnant pause.

            “You’re bluffing.”

            “Take that chance.” Sam smirked, unperturbed, the fire in his eyes flickering dangerously. “Start. Talking.”

            Crowley weighed his options. There weren’t many.

            “Alright, alright, but I don’t know much, mind, only rumours and –”

            _Crowley_. A shiver ran up Crowley’s spine.

            “And what?”

            “What was that?”

            “What was what?”

            “Didn’t you hear that?”

            “Hear what?”

            _Crowley!_

            Crowley felt a sudden pressure grip his entire being and wrench him into blackness.

            His feet fell heavily onto long grass, and he staggered, trying to keep his balance. He succeeded, though only just. Squinting in the sudden brightness of the early morning sun, he looked around, bewildered. The sound of someone trying to hack up a lung caught his attention, and he saw Dean, eyes fading back to green, hunched over in the grass with blood running down his chin.

            “Oh bollocks!” He ran forward to Dean’s side. “Dean! What the hell just happened?”

            Dean responded by coughing up another globule of dark, glistening blood.

            “Did you just summon me from a Devil’s Trap?”

            Another hacking cough and an impatient glare made Crowley focus.

            “Oh, right – hold on, mate.” He placed a hand carefully on Dean’s forehead and let his power flow into the younger demon, healing the splice inside. “You shouldn’t have tried teleporting yourself so soon,” he continued as Dean took a relieved breath and finally stopped coughing. “You don’t know how yet, not properly. Every demon needs training.” He didn’t voice his astonishment at how Dean had done so well on his first try. They were miles away, in some abandoned graveyard that was mostly field by now. And he hadn’t run himself dry either – only coughing up blood after such an exertion? That was impressive. Crowley grinned, his eyes alight with the sudden possibilities. This was his first day as a demon. Imagine what he could do in a week?

            “Teleporting did this to me?” His voice was rough from the coughing.

            “Yep. Every demon needs training,” Crowley repeated, biting back his excitement. “Usually that happens in Hell so they don’t embarrass us while they’re learning.”

            Dean nodded and wiped the blood from his chin, but said nothing. The First Blade lay on the grass by his knee.

            “You good?” Crowley asked, and Dean nodded again. “So you did just summon me, yeah?”

            “Yeah. Why do you look so freaked?”

            “Because your brother had me in your dungeon – in a Devil’s Trap, that’s why. I didn’t know is was possible to pull a demon from one of those without breaking the symbol – especially not an iron one, underground, hidden by God knows how much warding!” Crowley stopped his babbling and stared at Dean.

            “Well, you said I’d be powerful.”

            “Yes. I did,” he muttered thoughtfully.

            Dean looked away and cleared his throat, his eyes falling on the motionless Blade. He tilted his head as though listening to something just on the edge of his hearing.

            “You need to get killing?” Crowley ventured, anticipation swelling in his stomach. The things this boy could do …

            “Yeah …” Dean replied, as though he hadn’t really heard Crowley. He listened to the Blade for another long minute, his hand inching slowly towards the hilt. Before he made contact, he stopped, and looked back up at the older demon. “Demons need training, huh?”

            Crowley nodded, a slow smile creeping along his lips.

            “You offering to be my Mr. Myagi then?”

            Crowley stood and extended a hand to the older, blood-covered Winchester. “Wax on, Dean-san.”

            Dean reached up and once their hands touched, Crowley winked, and they disappeared, leaving Stull Cemetery quiet and forgotten once more.


	6. Bad Idea

Castiel knew this was a bad idea. It was obviously a very, very bad idea, and yet his feet carried him ruthlessly to the angelic prison.

            Rage rose up in Castiel’s chest like a snake rising from long grass the moment he caught sight of Metatron. A _very_ bad idea.

            The old scribe was sitting meekly on the stone bench in the back of the cell, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees. His head was bowed and there was an air of defeat about him. Castiel tried not to find that too satisfying.

            Once he had control over the anger inside him, Cas stepped forward to stand before Metatron, right by the bars of his cell. Metatron did not look up, but spoke to his visitor. “I suppose you’ve come to hear how he died, then?”

            Cas bristled. “No. I’ve come to –”

            “Kill me?” Metatron’s head rose to meet Cas’s glare, his face alight with a boyish grin.

            Cas took a steadying breath as the anger flickered dangerously. “I’ve come for information. I need to know how to reinstate the line of prophets.”

            Metatron laughed, his posture relaxing as he leant back against the wall. “Oh that! My dear Castiel,” he said fondly, “that’s as irreversible as the spell that shut Heaven’s doors.”

            Cas frowned as he digested this. Obviously he could be lying. Suddenly wishing he had the Winchesters’ skill of sweet-talking vital information out of unwilling subjects, he tried a new tack.

            “That spell isn’t irreversible,” he said knowingly, injecting a confidence he did not feel into his voice. “You underestimated the Winchesters. They figured it out. I just want to save time looking for this ‘switch’ you flipped.”

            For a moment, Cas thought the ploy had worked. Metatron’s smile had faded and for a brief moment he looked worried. But then he smiled.

            “Winchesters? Don’t you mean Winchest _er_? Or have you forgotten that poor old Dean is dead?”

            Grief snapped furiously in Castiel’s chest, and he inwardly struggled with the beast for a moment. Unfortunately, Metatron continued.

            “Are you sure you don’t want to know how he died?”

            Cas looked up at him, unable to hide the fear and curiosity in his eyes. Metatron’s smile widened. He clapped his hands on his knees and rubbed them with the air of someone about to tell their favourite story to an eager audience.

            “He really thought he could beat me, you know. He trusted you’d find the Tablet in time and he’d be able to stick me with that old bone of his.” He paused to allow his words to marinate in the air as his eyes flicked accusingly to Castiel’s. His voice lost its jovial edge, replaced by a deadly serious tone. “But he never had a chance, of course. One punch, that’s all he got. And then he was mine.” His voice lowered as he continued, and Cas could hear his fierce pleasure in every word. “I threw him around like a rag doll, and _oooh_ ,” he cooed, “he bled so easily. And just when he thought he could fight back, could at least die with my blood on his hands, I took my angelblade and I stabbed him right through his heart.” He mimed the motion gently in the air, and Castiel felt as if he too was being stabbed as his heart gave an odd sort of shudder. His breath rushed out of him in a barely audible sigh and his stomach seemed to shrivel inside him.

            Metatron’s smile was cruel as he saw the anguish in Castiel’s eyes.

            “Why are you telling me this?” Cas’s voice sounded as hollow as his chest felt.

            Metatron chuckled. “So you know, Castiel,” he replied in that falsely sweet, innocent tone Cas had come to despise. “So you know what this foolish quest of yours cost you. So you know exactly how the man you gave away an army for died. How much pain he was in – especially when that brother showed up!” Metatron laughed aloud at the memory. “Oh, his face! It was priceless!”

            Cas tried to inhale but the breath seemed to stick in his mouth. Sam. Sam had been there with him. He wasn’t sure if that thought heartened him or only added to the horror of it all – that Dean hadn’t died alone, or the fact that Sam had had to watch, had to see his brother die, and that Dean was powerless to protect Sam from the grief that followed.

            Castiel felt himself sinking, spiralling down into despair and heartache. He mentally shook himself, forced himself back under control, trying to slip into his old self, trying to be the angel who could just follow orders again. Except he had to give himself the orders now. So he commanded himself to take charge and interrogate Metatron, to learn how to save Heaven.

            When he spoke, his voice was like steel, cold and immovable.

            “Tell me how to reopen Heaven.”

            Metatron’s smile faded as he considered Castiel’s stern face, and he quickly sifted through the many scenarios that could unfold from this moment. It took no time at all for the former scribe of God to remember, evaluate, and dismiss every situation similar to this he had ever consumed, and before he drew his next breath, his plan was set.

            Casting his eyes downward ashamedly, he fixed his features in their most remorseful configuration. Allowing a hint of the despair he felt at his earlier failure to seep into his voice, he answered:

            “I wasn’t lying, Castiel. That spell cannot be undone. There was no reversal spell or ritual or footnote in the Tablet – God never told me how to undo it. It’s permanent.” He raised his eyes, now full of compunction, to gaze imploringly into Castiel’s steely stare. “I’m sorry. Heaven must remain closed.” His features brightened and he injected a note of cheery optimism into his tone. “But think, Castiel! Even if my methods were harsh, angelkind needs this! We need time to remember our role in this universe! Now we have that chance, now we can start –”

            “Shut up!” Cas groaned exasperatedly. He was wasting his time here; Metatron was a broken, irritating record. He would find the answers elsewhere. He had wasted enough time on this criminal. Without another word, he turned, and in a flash of tan trench coat, walked briskly out of the prison, leaving the slightly offended but smiling Metatron in his cell.

            Once outside the prison, Cas came to a sudden halt as the unmistakable tremor of words spoken with the single intent of him hearing them shimmered through his consciousness, preceding a familiar voice whispering in his mind.

            _Cas? Castiel?_

            He froze. For one glorious moment he was sure it was Dean, somehow still alive. As soon as the thought materialized it dissipated, leaving the aching emptiness of disappointment behind.

            _It’s Sam. Listen, Cas, I, uh ..._ Cas had been expecting to hear pain in the younger – in the only, he corrected himself with a pang – Winchester’s voice, but the intensity of the emotions laced into the words still shocked him.

            _I don’t know if you’re even alive, but ... Cas, buddy, I really need you to be alive. Something’s ... happened. Please answer, Cas. Dean’s, uh ..._ Please _._

            The last word was softly spoken and echoed with a loneliness so deep it sent a shiver up Cas’s spine. Not for the first time, Castiel wished prayers worked both ways so he could call back to Sam and tell him – what? That he was on his way?

            Castiel’s shoulders sagged as he was, once again, torn. Part of him wanted nothing more than to go to his hurting friend and offer what paltry comfort he could, and receive some in return, perhaps even the rare pleasure of a heartfelt hug. Another, more cowardly part, wanted to hide from the man’s grief – his own was still so jagged and throbbing, how could he possibly bear another’s pain as well? He felt ashamed to be so selfish; Sam was his friend – his only friend, now – how could he not go to him? How could he turn his back on one of the few people ever to truly accept him, enough to forgive all his unforgivable mistakes?

            And then there was Heaven. If he left, how would he return? Even if his wings weren’t charred and useless shadows of what they had once been, Heaven was locked. The only way to Earth and back was through the portal, and who knew if he could truly trust the angels left in charge of it? If he had their allegiance, he need not worry, but could he really expect angels to follow a leader who repelled the mantle that seemed to have, once again, fallen on his unwilling shoulders?

            He knew he must stay. He knew he must try to return some semblance of order to the home of the angels. He also knew that he was utterly unfit and unequal to the task.

            But it was what Dean would tell him to do.


	7. We Need To Talk About Dean

Sam was slumped across the table in the bunker’s library with half a bottle of whiskey still clasped in his sleeping hand when the broken radio suddenly lit up and poured a length of static into the previously silent room.

            _“Sam?”_ croaked the radio, the voice broken and distorted.

            With a long, nasally inhale, Sam jerked awake, the bottle startling as his hand shot out in a half-punch. He looked around, bleary eyed. “Dean?”

            It took him a moment to remember the black eyes.

            He took another swig of whiskey, wishing the drink could burn away that unnatural memory, not just his throat.

            _“Sam?”_

            Sam stiffened, instantly alert. For the first time, he became aware of the static fizzling from the radio behind him. Slowly, cautiously, he rose from his seat and approached the radio he’d tried and failed to coax into life all those months ago. His hand reached automatically for his handgun.

            “Hello?” he answered warily.

            _“Sam? Can you hear me?”_

            He frowned as he recognized the voice hidden by the radio’s crackling. “Cas?”

            _“Yes, it’s me,”_ came the slightly clearer reply. Sam thought he heard a relieved sigh. _“I wasn’t sure this would work backwards. I’m glad it does.”_

            “What works backwards? What are you – why are you in my radio?”

            There was a short, and, Sam was sure, confused pause before Cas spoke again. _“I-I’m not in your radio.”_

            Shaking his head and feeling the first tiny glimmer of amusement in days, Sam pulled his chair over to the old wireless and sat down, resting the whiskey bottle on one knee and the gun on the other.

            “It’s good to hear from you, Cas. I thought you might be dead.”

            The static slowly decreased to background level, as though Castiel had tuned it to better reach Sam’s station. _“I was glad to hear your prayer, too, Sam. I, uhm ... Metatron told me about – about Dean.”_

            A dark shadow of twisted pain and fear rippled across Sam’s chest. He cleared his throat, hoping in vain it would clear the weight from his heart, too. It didn’t. “He, uhm ... he told you Dean was dead?”

            _“Yes. I’m so sorry, Sam. I should have - should’ve found the Tablet sooner. And I’m sorry I can’t come to you. I swear, if Heaven were safe, I’d be with you as fast as my wi- as a car could bring me, but even so, Sam.”_ Cas’s voice was suddenly thicker, as though with unshed tears. _“I can’t bring him back. I’m sorry, my Grace –”_

            “Dean isn’t dead.”

            There was a stunned silence. _“What?”_

            “Dean’s alive, Cas.” Or at least, part of him was.

            There was a long pause as Cas digested this.

            _“What did you do, Sam?”_

            He snorted. “Nothing. Crowley did,” he sneered, his tongue twisting around the hated name as though trying to avoid touching it.

_“What happened? Did you make a deal? Did –”_

            “Dean’s a demon, Cas.”

            Silence filled the bunker. Even the low-level static still seeping from the radio was dwarfed by the enormity of Sam’s words, as though the entire bunker was as shocked as Sam had been. It lengthened and thickened and pressed down on Sam’s ears, on his mind, as his words seemed to simply hang there, invisible, bombarding him with the lack of the one voice he longed to hear say how stupid the very thought of Dean Winchester being a goddamn _demon_ was.

            _“No.”_ Though the single syllable was barely whispered, it rang through the emptiness in the air like a gunshot.

            “Yes.” Louder. A grenade exploding.

            _“He – he’s a –”_ Tentative shots, drawing fire.

            “He’s a demon.” Hiroshima was a soap bubble bursting compared to this.

            Sam heard a muffled crash. He guessed Cas had just thrown a chair or something across the room. Sounded like a good idea, actually. Too tired to stand up, Sam settled for another, longer pull on the bottle instead.

            _“DAMMIT!”_ Cas bellowed suddenly into the silence. Sam jumped, automatically fumbling for the volume control before he realised that was probably a stupid idea. _“DAMMIT, DEAN!”_ Cas roared again, his voice dripping with the same rage that was coiled so tightly around Sam’s heart, protecting it from the grief and confusion and fear and helplessness he couldn’t afford to feel.

            He took another pull.

            _“Dammit,”_ Cas whispered, the energy gone from his voice. _“I should have known. I should have remembered. The Mark.”_

            “Yeah,” Sam replied, anger clipping the syllable into a brief staccato. “That’s what Crowley said too.”

            _“Crowley?”_

            In short, painful sentences, using as few words as possible, Sam recounted what had happened since he, Cas and Gadreel had parted ways in their attempt to stop Metatron.

            _“Oh, Sam,”_ Cas whispered, and Sam knew he, too, was caught in an ocean of pain, _“I’m so sorry.”_

            Rubbing the back of his neck for no real reason, Sam replied, rather more gruffly than he’d intended. “’S not your fault, Cas.”

            _“If I had found the Tablet –”_

            “Doesn’t matter.”

_“How?”_

            Sam chuckled humourlessly. “This would have happened no matter what we’d have done. It’s just ... our lives. A big boss battle like this – with Heaven and Earth in the balance, of course one of us was gonna die.” He paused, remembering Dean’s single-minded disregard for the dangers of the task. _I’m gonna take my shot, for better or worse. No matter the consequences._

            No matter the consequences.

            Sam closed his eyes against the tsunami of hurt welling up inside him. _Oh Dean._

            “What are we gonna do, Cas?” His voice was so low, he wondered if Cas could even hear him.

            _“I ... don’t know. Dean is ... Dean is so much worse than dead. And we can’t help him.”_

            Sam’s head shot up, his brow furrowing. “The hell we can’t!”

            _“What?”_

            “I’m going to save Dean, Cas,” he said slowly, deliberately, as though pointing out an overtly obvious fact to someone not only slow but also dense and impatient.

            _“Sam. Dean cannot be saved.”_

            The words fell heavily from the radio’s speaker, and Sam stared at it as though it – as though Cas – had gone mad.

            “Yes, he can,” he argued, injecting the classic Winchester stubbornness into his tone. “All I need is help finding him, and I’ll just use the Demon Cure I used on Crowley for the Trials, and he’ll –”

            _“No, Sam.”_ Cas’s voice was too calm, too even. He sounded like a parent explaining to an upset child that Santa Claus was a myth.

            “What do you mean ‘no’?” Sam’s eyebrows mashed together. “You mean you won’t help me?”

            _“Of course not. I mean no, you’re wrong. The Demon Cure will not work on Dean. He’s not just a demon.”_

            Sam’s arms flew up in an exasperated _whoosh_. “What the hell does that even mean! His eyes were black, he vanished into thin air – I know a goddamn demon when I see one, Cas!”

            Castiel matched Sam’s angry tone with a calm, patient one. _“A normal demon is a soul that has, for some reason or other, come to Hell. There it is tortured until it breaks, until it turns –”_

            “I know, Cas.” His voice was calmer but no less impatient.

            _“Well, then you know Dean isn’t one of them. His soul was turned while he still lived – that was the beginnings of it. I should have realised, should have remembered ...”_ There was a pause as Cas lost himself briefly in whatever memories he’d forgotten. _“The Mark of Cain starting eroding his humanity the second it burned itself into his skin. By itself, it can’t do much; it and the Blade are most powerful together, and it’s the Blade – the first murder weapon – that truly conquers the soul. I think,”_ Cas added, uncertainly. _“There’s only one other person in the history of the universe who’s ever had them both.”_

            “Cain,” Sam growled.

_“Yes. And his descent into devilry was far quicker than Dean’s. But from the moment Dean first killed using the Blade, in truth, he was lost.”_

            Sam shifted uncomfortably at the mention of ‘lost’. Dean wasn’t lost, not truly. He could still be found. He could still be saved. Sam would see to it. He would bring his brother back if it killed him.

            _“So,”_ Cas continued, sounding as though the words were dry and cumbersome to speak. _“Killing Abaddon, being killed”_ – he swallowed – _“it was the final straw. When you die, before your soul can ... move on, there’s a time – sometimes just a few nanoseconds, sometimes hours – during which your soul remains in your body, until either a Reaper comes, or the connection – which is extremely tenuous after the heart stops beating – is broken. But in this time, the soul is weak. That’s why young ghosts can never interact with the physical world. They’re utterly drained. While Dean’s soul was in such a weak state, it would be easy for the Mark to ... bleed out, and fill his soul.”_ He paused. _“Kind of like the transition from human to vampire. Unstoppable. And permanent.”_

            “But being a vampire isn’t permanent – not if you get to them before they drink human blood.” Sam was grasping at hairs and he knew it.

            _“Well, yes. But for Dean ... this change is permanent.”_

            Sam’s anger reignited. “But how can you know that! The Demon Cure was only invented in the nineteen fifties! Cain was already in hiding, no one knew where he was, and anyone who would want to save him was dead, so how can you know if it wouldn’t work on him?”

            _“Because,”_ Cas said, anger rising in his voice in retaliation to Sam’s tone. _“Cain and Dean are both demons because of the angelpact – because of the Mark. The Mark is the source of their demonization, not Hell. The taint of Hell can – apparently – be washed away with human blood injections, but that will not – cannot – work on them because the taint is still there, still infecting them!_

            _“Even if you were to try it, the best – the_ best – _you could hope for would be a second or two of clarity before the Mark just pours more poison into their souls! It’s in control now, Sam. The Mark and the Blade, and whatever fragments of the Dean we knew that survived the process! Which, just FYI”_ – the voice was sneering now, masking his own hurt with cruelty and mocking – _“would be his liking of torture and violence and everything that he hated about himself!”_

            He stopped, save for the angry huffs of breath that puffed out of the old wireless. Sam was staring at his hands, clasped before him around the neck of the whiskey bottle. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but deadly with its certainty.

            “You’re wrong. I’m sorry, Cas, but you’re wrong. As long as Dean’s alive, as long as I’m alive, there’s hope. I’ve gotta believe that. I mean” – he grinned humourlessly – “Dean got Death to get my soul back from the Pit! He brought me back more times than I wanna think about. You brought him back from Hell.” He was frowning again. “There’s got to be a way to bring him back. I can’t – I can’t let him be a demon. He’d rather die than be that.” His voice was slowly losing volume until the last words were just a lost-sounding whisper. “I can’t leave him like that.”

            The rage had melted out of Cas’s tone now. When he spoke, the words reached out like a comforting hand to hang in the air around Sam’s shoulders.

            _“I know. I know.”_

            “I’ve gotta try, Cas. I won’t just leave him ...” The sentence hung unfinished in the air, the final word, ‘again’, hovering unsaid between man and machine.

            _“I know.”_

            “All I’ve gotta do is find him and bring him to a church.”

            Tear-filled eyes looked imploringly up at the radio, as though he could see through the yellow-lit display and gaze upon his friend’s face.

            “Will you help me?”

            Castiel hesitated for perhaps one whole second. _“Of course I will, Sam. I’m with you till the end. You know that.”_ Sam heard a small smile in the words that felt like a lifeline, and his own lips twitched upwards in a sad approximation of a smile.

            “Thanks, Cas.”


	8. It’s Gonna Be A Busy Year

            Castiel stayed on the radio for the rest of the day, and Sam found a small semblance of comfort in the familiar voice. Cas told him what had happened in Heaven. How they had been imprisoned, how Gadreel had sacrificed himself so Cas could be free and try to stop Metatron. Sam’s over-weary heart sank yet lower when he heard this. As far as he was concerned, Gadreel had earned his redemption. With a sigh, Sam let go of any lingering anger he felt towards the angel. What he had done since being freed from Heaven was no worse than the crimes Sam had committed in the past. He couldn’t blame him for his poor judge of character, and, he knew, he owed his life to the angel.

            While Sam updated the demon-tracking algorithm Charlie had shown him on his laptop, he and Cas took stock.

            “So Heaven’s still on lockdown, huh?” Sam called over to the radio from the desk strewn with pages from half a dozen Men of Letters files.

            _“Unfortunately, yes. I still don’t know how to reverse it, and Metatron’s not exactly helping.”_

            “I still think you should have killed him,” Sam said darkly.

            _“Believe me, I wanted to. But enough angels have died already.”_

            Rather than pursue the argument, Sam clenched his teeth and held his tongue. As if Metatron was going to suddenly see the error of his ways and join the good fight. As if he wouldn’t try something else.

            “What about –”

            _“Sam, you don’t need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”_

            He stopped, surprised mouth still hanging open. With a frown he asked, “How can you hear me anyway? How come you can talk to me from Heaven?”

_“Do you remember the last time you were in Heaven?”_

            “Yeah,” Sam huffed. “Not all that easy to forget.”

            _“Well, when you and Dean were up there, I was stuck on Earth. I was able to achieve the right frequency to converse with you via the car radio and television in your respective heavens. I wasn’t sure if it would work backwards, but it was the only way I could think of to answer your prayer, since I can’t leave Heaven just now.”_

            “Huh. Clever.”

            _“Thank you.”_

            “So, Cas.” Sam shook his head slightly, returning to the subject at hand. “What about your Grace?”

            A pause. _“What about it?”_ Cas replied, his tone somewhat guarded.

            Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, I mean, is it still ... y’know ...” Was there a tactful way to say this? “Killing you?” Guess not.

_“Yes, it, uh, it’s killing me.”_

            “How long’ve you got?”

_“A few months, if I’m careful.”_

            “That’s not very long, Cas,” Sam said, his voice low and sombre.

            _“No. It isn’t.”_

            “Well, isn’t there anything you can do? Steal another one?”

_“I’m not going to do that, Sam.”_

            “Why the hell not! Cas, you’re dying!” Somehow glaring at an inanimate object just didn’t hold the same sort of satisfaction.

            _“Because even if I could bring myself to murder yet another angel, it wouldn’t solve the problem. At best it would give me more time, but it wouldn’t even fill me as much as this one did.”_

            “What, like an addict never getting that first high again?”

            _“Well, I’m not addicted to angel Grace, but yeah, it’s the same principle, I guess.”_

            “So, instead you’re just gonna waste away and die?” _You’re just gonna leave me alone to save Dean?_

            _“Yes.”_

            Sam’s head flopped into his waiting palms.

            “Why don’t you just ... take Metatron’s Grace? He’d be a lot less dangerous if he was human.”

            _“Sam ...”_

            Sam tried to keep the bite out of his next words. “So you don’t think there’s enough worth staying around for?” He failed.

            Cas’s voice was filled with sorrow when he spoke again. _“You know that’s not how it is. I don’t want to die –”_

            “Then go and take Metatron’s Grace!”

            _“I can’t!”_ Cas yelled, impatience and anger almost hiding the sadness in his voice. _“If I take his power away, if I kill him, it’ll make me –”_

            “What, as bad as he is? Cas, you do realise you two are the only angels to ever be gods, right?”

            _“I am aware. That’s not what I was going to say. I don’t know how to explain it to you, Sam. I know you want him dead. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind using him as an angelblade holster myself, but I just ...”_ Sam could hear him change tack. _“He’s the only one alive who knows what’s on the Tablets. The answer to Heaven’s Gates must be on there somewhere, and maybe the answer to my Grace problem too, and Metatron is the only one who can tell me.”_

            “Yeah,” Sam scoffed derisively. “I bet he’s just itching to tell you.”

            _“I’m sorry, Sam. Without my own Grace ... I’m going to die. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”_ Sam winced as he suddenly remembered the last time he’d heard those same words, in a tiny hospital room, from a Dean who’d already looked half-dead.

_“I’m sorry,”_ Cas finished, the words heavy with sincerity.

            Not knowing what to say, Sam reached over to the second bottle of whiskey – one he’d found in Dean’s room – and took a long, burning gulp of the amber liquid. He suddenly felt very alone.

            “Cas, you just, uhm –” He cleared his throat. “You just worry about – about Heaven for now. Get the angels under control. I’ll ... I’ll find Dean. I’ll pray to you when I’ve found him.”

            _“Okay, Sam. I’ll hear you.”_

            The radio became silent, the small yellow light from the display slowly fading until it too succumbed to the suddenly oppressive silence of the too-empty bunker.

            “Right,” Sam muttered to himself, needing to hear something, some sign of life in the stillness, even if it was his own. He returned his attention to the laptop. “We’ve got work to do.”


	9. Hunted

_Two months later._

            Melanie Harker knew exactly what the yellow-green powder was before she touched it. She knew how it would smell before her fingers rose to her nose. She knew there had been two of them.

            What she didn’t know was why one of them had used a knife.

            “Anything else I can help you with, Agent?”

            God, that officer had an annoying voice. She straightened up with a smile painted across her lips. “No thanks, Officer Davids. I think I’ve seen all I need to.”

            Clearly the smile had convinced him. Or else he was just stupid. Either way, he answered in an aggressively cheery voice, “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you, you just let me know.” Ugh, God, who has teeth like that? They were way too straight, even if he’d had braces as a kid.

            “I’ll be sure to do that.”

            Not bothering to thank him or listen to him babble on about lost souls and unhappy accidents in that too-happy tone, Melanie tucked a wayward strand of her long brown hair back behind her ear, and walked smoothly out of the crime scene, avoiding the pools of dried blood that covered most of the warehouse floor.

            She made her way carefully to her car, skilfully avoiding any contact with the officers and ‘concerned’ civilians waiting pointlessly outside the building. She drove a silver 2000 Ford Mondeo, and had for eight years now. It was a boring, but reliable car. The kind you’d see in a shopping centre parking lot and forget as soon as your eyes moved on. Which was, of course, the point.

            Melanie Harker was a skilled hunter, and demons were her specialty. She was sure the warehouse workers had been killed by the same demon that murdered Max. She was also certain that every worker in the factory had been a demon. Even dead, their possessed bodies reacted to holy water, though not as dramatically as they do while the demon lived And, of course, the stench of sulphur lingered.

            Demons fighting demons was hardly new. For the last year or so, demons had been at war with one another, fighting for their lives and their leaders. Melanie had interrogated enough demons on both sides to learn the story.

            One leader was Crowley. He’d been ‘the King of Hell’ for a few years now, until he’d disappeared for months with no warning. A lot of the demons had thought he’d been killed by the opposition. Turns out he was alive and follower-less, struggling to walk down a street without being gutted by Abaddon’s loyalists.

            That was the other leader: Abaddon. She was something called a Knight of Hell: immortal, immoral – even for a demon – and terrifying enough to have the majority of demonkind on her side in six months. She was ruthless, cunning, and enjoyed getting her hands dirty.

            She was also dead. Killed by one of the Winchesters.

            Until recently, Melanie had been satisfied just knowing the Knight was dead, though she had of course been curious as to how it had been done. She didn’t know the Winchesters, but she’d heard enough about them from other hunters not to doubt an outrageous-sounding claim, like killing the unkillable. They’d done it before, according to Rupert.

            Now, however, she needed to know. Whatever had attacked the warehouses, the crack dens, the convents, and the random houses – it was more than just a run-of-the-mill demon having fun. It was powerful, so far untraceable, and it used a knife.

            _Why a knife?_

            That was the most annoying detail, the one that, to Melanie, proved this was no ordinary demon, but gave no clues as to what the hell it was. Demons only used knives if they were torturing. They didn’t use them as murder weapons, not this consistently, not with such a strange blade. According to three almost-identical coroners’ reports, whatever had penetrated the victims hadn’t been metal. There was no such residue on their bones. But whatever had sliced through them had been sharp enough to slice through ribcages as if they were no more substantial than air.

_What sort of demon kills with a knife?_

            Sitting in her car, she withdrew the last two autopsy reports from the latest batch of victims. Apparently one had suffered a fatal bullet wound. About thirty years ago. Demon – point one for Mel. The second had been possessed more recently, she gathered. The coroner, who’d clearly either been extremely bored or pathetically caring, had gone to extra lengths to try and identify the murder weapon. Using some camera thing Melanie couldn’t pronounce the name of but was pretty sure she’d seen on _Bones_ , Doctor Wills had gotten a high-def picture of the victim’s sternum. The blade the demon had used had pierced right through it, straight to the heart. Like all the others, there were no blade fragments left behind, which, the good doctor noted, was odd. So he’d zoomed in on his bone-tastic camera and decided that, because of the microscopic scratches left around the edges of the broken bone, that the dead demon had been stabbed with—

            _Bone?_

            Melanie looked up from the file, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Bone? Who makes a blade from bone? What kind of bone is strong enough to slice through sternums and craniums so easily? Clearly it was in some way magical, but—

            Melanie’s mouth fell open.

            _Magic bone. Murder weapon._

            Well, she owed Rupert a beer.

            A satisfied smile replaced the shock on her face, and she threw the files onto the passenger seat. Turning the key in the ignition, she ran through everything she knew about what she was up against. He was old, very old. And dangerous. He was gonna be hard to kill, that was for sure. She’d need help.

            Despite how enormous the task she faced suddenly seemed, the smile did not fade from her lips.

            She had a name, at last, after weeks of tracking.

            What sort of demon killed with a knife?

            The kind that always had.

            The first killer.

            Cain.


	10. Minor Setback

            Metatron wasn’t having what one would call the best day. Or month. Yeah, the last month hadn’t been so brilliant for him. Neither had the month before.

            Castiel, the mighty and oh-so-well-intentioned Castiel, had got one over on him, and even if he had to admit it was a good move, he was insulted. Not to mention furious.

            But mostly at himself.

            He shouldn’t have underestimated the Winchesters and their pet angel. It was his mistake; he knew it. And now he was stuck in a Heavenly cell, with nothing to do.

            Except plan.

            It had happened to countless heroes, right when you think they’ve managed to defeat the villain, something goes wrong; they get betrayed, or make some stupid mistake they should have seen coming, or the bad guy had an ace up his sleeve. They get captured. Often tortured. Sometimes killed. But the ones who survive, they never give up. They think of a way to get out, get revenge.

            Just a minor setback. A plot twist to keep the readers on their toes, keep them interested. Let them know the hero’s human, just like them. Not perfect.

            He admitted it, for the first week or so he’d wallowed. He’d sulked. The monotonous prayers to ‘Marv’ were dull and only reminded him of his failure. All he heard from his insufferably chatty guard was ‘Castiel this,’ ‘Castiel that.’ Castiel had sent angels down to work minor miracles in hospitals. Castiel was focusing all his energy on bringing the angels back to Heaven. Castiel, brave, heroic Castiel, was working day and night (hel _lo_ , angels don’t sleep, you idiot) even though his Grace was fading and he was dying. Blah, blah, blah.

            Boy, did it get annoying fast.

            And there was all that patronizing guilt-tripping. For hours, Adriel had lectured him on how awful he was to steal Castiel’s Grace, how ashamed God would be of him for sealing Heaven, how he really shouldn’t have killed the Winchester boy since Castiel was so fond of him. How there’d been an increase in demon activity because – he had the gall to say – the angels were trapped. As though it hadn’t been thousands of years since the angels gave a crap what those pathetic excuse for lifeforms did! Well, apart from the whole apocalypse thing, but that was really only because Lucifer was involved. Angels didn’t care about demons, but would that stop him yammering on? Nope.

            It was enough to drive him mad.

            Luckily though, Adriel was only one of his guards. Sariel was far more interesting.

            He’d started relieving Adriel early in Metatron’s second week of captivity. At first, he’d been silent, staring covertly at the prisoner. Metatron in turn had passed hours happily scowling his displeasure at one of the angels who had deserted him, left him in this boring cell to rot.

            When Sariel had finally spoken, his deep voice reverberating around the stone room, his words had surprised the former scribe.

            “So you’ve given up, then?”

            Metatron had conceded his staring contest with the section of the left wall that stuck out a bit more than the rest and turned his confused gaze to the angel. “Sorry?”

            “Are you?”

            “Am I sorry?”

            “Giving up.”

            It wasn’t until someone else had accused him of it that he realized just how repulsive the notion was. He was Metatron: he was the hero. Heroes didn’t give up.

            “Of course I’m not giving up,” he said with petulant resolve and a dangerous smile.

            Sariel stepped closer to the bars, his eyes boring into Metatron’s. “You have a plan? You still wish to bring us back to our rightful place?”

            “It’s my raison d’être. And I will see it done.”

            Sariel smiled, a tight curving of the corners of his thin dark lips that did not reach his cold blue eyes.

            Metatron stood up and come to stand before the angel. After a long moment spent calculating the look in Sariel’s eyes, Metatron spoke, his voice low. “But I can’t do it alone. Not from in here.”

            That had been the start of Phase Two. At first it was just Sariel, feeding him any and all pertinent information. When he wasn’t guarding Metatron, Sariel stayed close to Castiel as a ‘trusted advisor’, according to him, and so he heard gossip few others were privy to.

            For example, that surge in demonic chaos? That wasn’t led by some ordinary Hellspawn, but Dean Winchester himself. Metatron had laughed himself silly at hearing this – he’d completely forgotten about the Mark of Cain. But Dean Winchester, the boy who had spent his life hunting the demon that killed his mother, now had black eyes himself. It was hysterical! And so beautifully tragic. Becoming his worst nightmare, how _delicious!_

            Better yet, Cas and the younger one, Sam, had had some sort of falling out a week or so ago. He didn’t know what the story was, but the idea of Goofy and Donald falling apart while Micky had gone darkside was just plain poetic.

            And now, after weeks of careful observation and the shiniest of silver tongues, Metatron’s ranks had swollen from one to twenty. Twenty angels who thought Castiel had the wrong idea. Twenty soldiers who believed Metatron’s end justified his means. Twenty hearts devoted to him like never before.

            He was careful. Whenever Adriel or any of the untrustworthy guards stood sentinel over his prison, Metatron draped himself in the guise of a repentant, defeated soul, meek and helpless. It was working perfectly. Even when Castiel had visited, trying (and of course, failing) to extract Metatron’s knowledge of the Tablets, Metatron doubted the angel even suspected he was anything other than the depressed husk of the god he had once portrayed. It was perfect. He even threw in a hint of going senile from confinement.

            All the while, he perfected his role as puppet master. He gave his angels small, seemingly innocuous tasks, reminding them all secrecy and subtlety were their greatest assets. They followed his orders like the mindless drones they were, and soon Metatron had his own angels on Earth, carrying out his own missions while Castiel was confident they were following his own orders.

            It was a fine and tenuous balance to maintain, but under Metatron’s careful instruction, his swelling army was slowly, inexorably, invisibly taking over Heaven.

            It was all Metatron could do to not spend his days laughing hysterically in his cell.

            A minor setback, that was all his defeat had been. Now he was closer than ever to fulfilling his mission. Never mind that Castiel ‘rescued’ more and more angels from Earth, returning them heroically to Heaven. Never mind that most of them still believed in their reluctant leader. In fact, that made everything so much easier. When he was ready to strike, every unfaithful angel would be sitting like fat, lazy pigs in a sty, helpless against him.

            To be honest, the hardest thing for Metatron was hiding his broad grin whenever Adriel was around.


	11. The Demon in the Diner

            An hour and a half outside Fort Dodge, Iowa, Missy Loo’s Diner was having a busy day. It was mid-August, and it seemed that everyone within a ten-mile radius had a craving for Missy’s famous deep fried mozzarella sticks and apple cinnamon pie. Every seat, from counter to booths, was full.

            Eight burly construction workers, still wearing their high-vis vests, sat in a contended line along the counter, slowly working their way through two pots of coffee and at least a full pig’s worth of sausage and bacon. Enjoying their air-conditioned break from the hot day and hard work, their rumbling conversation was frequently interrupted by effervescent laughter.

            In the booth farthest from the single glass door, a young family were happily persuading mouthfuls of scrambled egg into their three-year-old son, while his little sister, Anna-Beth, who would be celebrating her eight month birthday tomorrow, was giggling incessantly with disproportional delight as their mother tried, unsuccessfully, to spoon a soggy green pea-based goo into her mouth. Too cheerful to get properly frustrated, their mother, Sarah, threw down the tiny spoon in mock defeat. Flashing a glowing smile to her husband, she rose from the booth and strode over to the old-fashioned jukebox in the far corner. Flicking her long blonde hair behind her shoulder, she smiled contentedly at all the families and friends laughing and chatting happily over good coffee and better food. She took a moment to appreciate what a delightful day she was having. A warm bubble of confident joy swelled inside her chest as she passed the booths.

            Just as she found the perfect song to fit her current mood in the jukebox, she felt a rush of warm air blow her hair up into her open mouth. Looking up automatically, she saw a man enter the diner. He was tall, muscular, and the sight of him sent a shiver running up Sarah’s spine, though she couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps it was his too-confident bearing, as though an explosion could take place feet from him and he’d laugh at its flames.

            He had longish hair that fell to just above his eyebrows, and he wore black biker boots, a black, slimming jacket, and dark jeans. A well-trimmed beard, peppered with sparks of ginger, covered his jawline. And yet he didn’t look like a biker. There was something unsettling about the man. His green eyes were filled with an energy that twisted her stomach in fright. When he met her gaze briefly, she offered a small smile, which he returned with gusto. That smile had her fumbling with the machine, eager to get away from the stranger and back to her family.

            “I’ll be with you in two shakes, love,” Margaret called to the newcomer from behind the counter, coffee pot in one hand and a bill on a small circular dish in the other.

            “Oh, don’t mind me,” the black-clothed man called back, his voice lower and silkier than Sarah would have guessed. An easy smile pulled at his lips as he reached a hand to an inside pocket of his dark jacket. “I just stopped by for” – he drew out a dark brown object and gripped it firmly in his right hand – “a bite.” With a too-loud click, the windows and doors suddenly locked.

            The atmosphere of the diner shifted. The construction workers’ laughter stilled as they turned to see who had spoken. Slowly, _slowly_ , the other diners’ light-hearted babble died down as everyone suddenly became aware of the sinister stranger in dark clothes. Without knowing why, every occupant of Missy Loo’s Diner felt cold fear trickle sluggishly down their spines.

            The jukebox chugged and skittered slightly as it prepared the next song. The sudden lack of a background melody only accented the man’s effect on the restaurant.

            His smile widened.

            As the opening chords to Pink Martini’s “Donde Estas Yolanda” filled the waiting diner, Dean Winchester, his eyes flicking deepest black, took a long stride forwards to the nearest of the patrons: Jeremy Flynn, one of the construction workers. The First Blade slashed through the air with perfect precision, slicing the man’s throat so fast, Dean had already moved on to the next worker before Jeremy’s blood had a chance to flee his dying body in a great spurt of red.

            The screams started the same moment the horns poured out from the jukebox like spiced honey.

            Smiling in euphoric, primal satisfaction, Dean danced through the long diner, each strike ending a desperate scream, stilling a frantically beating heart. He swept through the mounting panic and chaos like a hunting panther, with perfect economy, each blow landing precisely where he willed it to, each thrust eliciting an angry explosion of glistening blood. Like the calm in the centre of a hurricane, Dean waltzed through the terrified crowd, dodging each wild punch and plate thrown his way with the skill of a seasoned warrior.

            To amuse himself, he timed his strikes with the beats of the song that filled the room, relishing the sweet harmony the screams added as they weaved themselves around the melody, punctuated by low grunts and desperate whimpers of agony as those he left to die more slowly gradually expired, their hands cradling their guts or great pools of their own blood to the gaping wounds in their abdomens and chests.

                                                _“Donde estas, donde estas, Yolanda,_

_Que paso, que paso, Yolanda,_

_Te busque, te busque, Yolanda,_

_Y no estas, y no estas Yolanda.”_

            The music continued indifferently as Dean butchered the fifty or so men, women, and children, regardless of their fevered pleas for mercy, their misjudged attacks, or their futile attempts to escape to the kitchens or out the inexplicably unbreakable windows.

            Dean flew through Missy Loo’s Diner, sailing through the airborne tendrils of glinting crimson like a child through a fountain on a hot day. Flecks of blood spattered his jacket and t-shirt, trickling down to create spiralling patterns as he spun in for attack after attack. Globules of it landed on his thick hair, making the shimmers of ginger in his beard stand out all the more. Dripping down onto his face, the tiny streams of scarlet shone as brightly as his eyes were dark. Coupled with the feral, rapturous smile, he didn’t look remotely human.

                                                _“Tus ojos me miraron,_

_Tus labios me besaron,_

_Con ese fuego ardiente,_

_Ardiente de mujer.”_

            It was the dance of death. Dean Winchester was a master of every step, every arrest; every tiny movement was under his complete control. The diner was consumed with blinding red flashes and sudden spouts of blood.

                                                _“Si un dia te encontrara,_

_No se que puedo hacer,_

_No se me vuelvo loco,_

_Si ya no te vuelvo a ver.”_

            Sarah and her family were among the last to be killed. First, the demon gutted her husband Robby from his belly button to the centre of his chest where he crouched concealing his wife and children. His life left him with a piteous gargling whimper. Next, the bone knife swept for her son’s head. With a desperate shriek of single-minded desire, Sarah, her once-blonde hair now slicked down with her best friend’s blood, flung herself at Dean with wild abandon, driven by her frenzied need to save her wailing, blood-spattered children.

            Dean took half a step to his side and brought the Blade down in a graceful arc, slicing through her left shoulder and down to below her right breast as easily as through the air, drawing it back to his right side in one fluid, uninterrupted, motion.

            As her corpse fell at his feet, the last of her wretched cry crawling from her blood-coated throat, Dean flicked the Blade and thrust it through the orphan son’s face. The tip of the Blade hit the metal of the booth’s seat and he took a half-second to relish the feeling of the hilt quivering in his steady palm, the vibrations tickling up his wrist.

                                                _“Donde estas, donde estas, Yolanda,_

_Que paso, que paso, Yolanda,_

_Te busque, te busque, Yolanda,_

_Y no estas, y no estas Yolanda.”_

            The last to die was little Anna-Beth. Her blood trickled down Dean’s chin from blood-stained teeth, and he had to agree with Abaddon. Words couldn’t describe the feeling, the satisfaction.

            Standing in the centre of the carnage, Dean looked up. He caught sight of his blood-flecked reflection in the mirror over the till. His eyes seemed to suck the light from the room. His chin was crimson and it looked as though he’d stepped through a cobweb of blood. He smiled at himself, a red drop running down his neck from the corner of his mouth. As his eyes faded slowly to green, and the last chord of “Donde Estas Yolanda” punched itself into the silent diner, he threw his head back and laughed with unbridled delight.

            “Now that,” Dean laughed, exhilarated, to the roomful of corpses, “was fun!”

 


	12. A Day In The Life

            Her screams tore out of her throat like an animal desperately escaping a burning cage. They leaped up against the walls of the unfinished house and fell back to the floor, echoing over and over until they died. Only to be replaced by the next shriek.

            “I DON’T KNOW! I SWE-EAR!” she yelled, a slight rasp to the sound as her throat tore.

            “I think you do,” Sam replied calmly, reaching into the Devil’s Trap and slicing another red line in the woman’s right arm.

            “PLEAAAASE! STO-O-OP!”

            “I’ll stop once you tell me the truth,” he lied. He folded his arms to indicate he didn’t intend to cut her anymore. For now. Ruby’s knife remained visible, sticking out from his torso like a silver and red flag.

            Taking deep, gasping breaths, the woman, Miranda, tried to calm herself. “But I swear, on my life, I don’t know! I only met him once, it was only one night, it –” Her own sobs cut her off.

            “Then tell me everything you do know.” On the surface Sam’s voice sounded casual, almost friendly, but there was an undercurrent of danger that chilled Miranda’s blood.

            She took a moment to swallow her tears and then tried, yet again, to explain. “H-He just c-came up to me at this bar –”

            “What bar?”

            “McLaren’s, near Winchester, Las Vegas! He-He said his name was Winchester, that he as good as owned the town.”

            Sam smirked.

            “So, so we got to talking, and – and I, I th-thought he w-was cute.” Miranda sobbed, trying valiantly to keep calm enough to speak. “So w-we went up to my hotel room – I w-was on vacation.” She shifted in the chair as she sucked in a breath, trying to alleviate the ropes’ pressure on her reddening wrists. “So we go up to my r-room, right, and we – it was j-just, just sex okay? That was – was it, I swear!”

            Sam considered.

            “You’re lying.”

            Miranda’s face screwed up in misery and a fresh wave of terrified sobs wracked her thin frame. _“Noooo,”_ she moaned, “I swear! That was it – he wasn’t e-even there when I woke up!”

            Sam’s eyes drifted to the deep bruises just visible against the dark skin of the woman’s cleavage, framed in a V by her white blouse.

            “Did he do that to you?” he said, gesturing to the discoloured skin.

            She dipped her chin, sniffing loudly. “H-He was r-rough,” she whispered fearfully.

            Sam nodded, thoughtful. “Where is he now?”

            “I don’t know!”

            “I think you do.”

            “I don’t!”

            “Stop lying,” he growled warningly.

            “I’m not! He just said I w-was beautiful and i-if I wanted a” – she hiccoughed – “drink, and then we went up t-to my room! A-all he s-said was that a n-night with a woman was food for the s-soul, and then he l-laughed – but he ne– he never told me where he was going! I swear to God!”

            Sam stared evenly into the deep brown eyes, shining with tears.

            “Alright,” he said, and Miranda sagged with relief. “I believe you.” And he stepped forward into the spray-painted Devil’s Trap and stabbed her through the heart, twisting the knife to slip unhindered between her ribs. She let out one brief gasp of horror, jerked, and slumped in the chair.

            No orange flash of demon fire, Sam noted. Huh. So she wasn’t a demon, then.

            Shrugging his indifference, he untied her and carried her to the basement of the house. He squirted lighter fluid over the corpse, struck a match, and left the body to burn as he gathered his things and left the windowless shell. The 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z28 he’d ‘liberated’ from a parking lot in St Joseph, Kansas, was waiting in the dark by the curb. He’d been driving one of the Men of Letters’ cars for a few weeks, a lime green ‘50s Ford Thunderbird. It was a nice car, but its decades spent unused and untreated in the forgotten garage had taken its toll. The deep burgundy Camaro with its twin black stripes decorating the hood and two hundred and ninety horsepower engine was far better suited to a hunter on a mission.

            Flinging his bag through the open window, he pulled the door open and sank onto the upholstered seat. Letting out a long, aggravated sigh, he sat a moment, parked outside one of the hundred soon-to-be houses in this latest ‘Salvation Springs’ or whatever was claiming to be creating the perfect home to live and raise your kids.

            Sam snorted.

            Jamming the key into the ignition, he started the rumbling engine and drove off, back to the highway, the police scanner he’d stolen resting on the passenger seat half-hidden under his bag. The occasional voices that broke through the static would be comforting, if they weren’t always the wrong voice.

            Castiel had promised to keep in touch, and yet Sam hadn’t heard from him in two weeks, not since the fight. He’d stopped praying a few days after that, sick of sending his words out into the nothingness of night, never receiving a reply.

            Screw Cas.

            He wanted to walk out and leave Sam to fight alone? Fine. He didn’t need him. He’d already followed Dean’s trail across eight states by himself. He’d find him soon enough.

            He was closing in.

            It was easy, really. Just follow the bodies. Sam had lost count at two hundred and forty-seven due to a concussion and an exploded warehouse in California. He’d been out of it for days.

            As he drove, his thoughts turned almost automatically to his hazy understanding of what Dean was up to. For the first few weeks, once he’d cracked Dean’s almost unique demonic omens, he’d traced his brother to six definite crime scenes, and suspected he’d been involved in several other catastrophes. An airline’s worth of planes had malfunctioned inexplicably, crashing down on land and sea alike. The only thing that connected all the planes was that they were had all embarked on international flights when they were brought down. Most of the passengers and crews had died, but there were a handful of survivors. Sam had interviewed them under the classic guise of an insurance mook. When they’d finally stopped blubbering long enough to tell him what they saw, they all reported the same thing, after some careful, doe-eyed persuasion. All of them had thought they’d seen black smoke at some point on their journey, not long before the oxygen masks burst out of the ceiling.

            A factory that specialized in pies had been ransacked. Workers killed, dozens of fresh pies reduced to crumbs. Sam couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter whenever he remembered that one. The stench of sulphur had mixed with the aroma of the various flavours of pies. The resulting odour was enough to make several of the police officers puke. Which helped the smell, of course.

            But still, after weeks, Sam had no idea what Dean was doing. He suspected Crowley was just showing him the wonderful new world of demonhood, letting him go wild or something. But if there was any pattern or design to the carnage, he couldn’t see it. Everything was in pieces, too small to fit together into a cohesive whole.

            He’d tried summoning Crowley almost every day since he disappeared from the bunker dungeon. The fact that he still hadn’t figured out how that happened only stoked the fire of Sam’s frustration. He assumed Dean had done it, somehow.

            He needed a break. God, he needed a break. Just one solid clue, one helpful hint and he could make some form of progress, but it had been a month and nothing.

            He’d interrogated over a dozen demons, some of whom, like Miranda, turned out not to be demons after all. There was a hole dug in the earth behind the bunker filled with their ash. None of them had given him anything usable. The girls Dean screwed never knew anything. Apart from the fact that Dean had scared them, he hadn’t exactly been a gentleman during their time together – Sam shuddered at the descriptions a few of the girls had given. Way too much detail for a brother to hear. But apart from being a complete ass to his bed buddies, they knew nothing. A few seemingly innocuous remarks here and there that stuck out for some reason – like a night with a woman being food for the soul, for example. He didn’t know why, but that sounded deeper than some cheesy pick up line to Sam.

            He hadn’t had much more luck with the demons he’d tortured. Most were terrified, fleeing the new Lord of Demons, as one of them had said. When asked why Dean was considered a ‘Lord of Demons’ of course, they’d never say. He’d only caught three demons that’d been following Dean so far. They’d rather die than talk. Sam hadn’t obliged them that choice. Each of them had told him something before he ganked them. Just nothing useable.

            The radio squawked in the seat beside him, and Sam turned his head sharply to see it. Cas?

            _“All units near West Maule Avenue, we have a 211 in progress, please respond.”_

            Armed robbery. Not his problem.

            Sam drove on, keeping as firm a hold on his thoughts as he did on the steering wheel. Fists clenched, knuckles white. God, he felt he hadn’t had a rest in years.

            Which wasn’t exactly untrue.

            He pulled into the motel parking lot with drooping eyelids. Once inside his room, he flung his bag gracelessly on the spare bed, the shotgun inside clinking against the flasks of holy water. Rubbing a hand over his eyes and stifling a yawn, he checked the salt lines at the windows, vents, and the half-circle arcing just beyond the reach of the front door’s swing. He pulled off his shirt and collapsed onto the soft(ish) mattress, facing the door.

            He’d chosen the bed farthest from the door. It would give him a few extra milliseconds to react if someone or something burst through it in the middle of the night, if he was sleeping. Which he usually wasn’t. The vacant bed was strewn with half-read Men of Letters files, coroners’ reports, general research, and his laptop, still tracking all demon omens in the US.

            This was the eighth – or tenth? – motel he’d stayed at since leaving the bunker, and each time he’d ordered a room with two queen beds automatically. He kept forgetting he didn’t need two beds anymore. He had convinced himself that it was worth paying the extra bills – he never knew when Dean would be back, needing a place to crash.

            It was stupid, he knew, but the sight of the empty bed made the dull ache in his heart he spent most of his time trying (and failing) to ignore seem more acute.

            God, he missed Dean.

            In many ways, this was worse even than when Dean had been in Hell. Sam had tortured himself imagining what was being done to Dean every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month he’d been down there. The loneliness and guilt had almost killed him. If Ruby hadn’t been around, it probably would have.

            When Dean had vanished to Purgatory, Sam had gone out of his mind with unanswerable questions and a desperate desire to just _run_. He still shuddered to think what would have happened to him if he hadn’t run over that damn dog and met Amelia. He wondered if he ever would have stopped.

            Even back when he’d been away at Stanford, a lifetime ago, whenever he’d missed his older brother he’d known he was safe – well, as safe as a hunter ever was – with their dad. Besides, back then there had been so many wonderful distractions. Lectures, assignments, tests, friends ... Jess. His heart shuddered painfully.

            This ... this was different. This was worse. Sam couldn’t rest knowing what Dean had become. A demon. The thing they had spent their entire lives hunting, even if they hadn’t known it. The thing that had infected Sam, murdered their parents and how many friends. The one monster above all the Winchesters loathed.

            Dean was one of them. Dean was a demon.

            His eyes had been black.

            Pain twisted like barbed wire around Sam’s heart as he remembered that unnatural sight. Still out of breath from running, he’d stood beside the Impala and watched his brother’s bright green eyes turn darker than dark, blacker than black. So deep and absolute they seemed to almost suck the light from the coming sunrise.

            Seeing those eyes in that face ...

            If Lucifer had thought of that he could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble.

            And the Impala. If Sam had needed proof that Dean wasn’t in control, that was it. Dean would never, _never_ so much as scratch that car. That car was their home. Their family had grown up that classic Chevy.

            And Dean – no, the demon _in_ Dean – had destroyed it, almost beyond recognition. Sam’s heart had buckled along with the screeching metal.

            He’d used the Thunderbird to drag the lump of twisted scrap into the garage, safely tucked away from the elements. Dean was gonna want to fix her up when he got back.

            Got back. Sam snorted. He was acting as though Dean had just gone off on vacation or something. If only.

            Gradually, Sam’s beehive mind began to slow. His thoughts became more sluggish and infrequent. Without quite knowing when, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

            Dreams of murdering Kevin had been replaced by a new nightly terror.

            He stood in the corner of his old nursery, Azazel’s yellow eyes burning like twin fires in the darkness beside him. He saw his six-month-old self stretching in the crib. A figure seemed to materialize out of the shadows, standing over the tiny baby. The face was obscured, and the sight of the silhouette set Sam’s heart to a terrified gallop.

            The wrist extended. The blood flowed into baby Sam’s mouth, infecting him with evil. Azazel laughed beside him, a deep, throaty chuckle.

            Mary appeared. Still sleep-heavy, she spoke to who she assumed was her husband. The dark man shushed her and she disappeared again and Sam wished ferociously that this time she would not come back.

            But she did. Every night she did.

            Sam watched as she reached forward in a futile attempt to get to her youngest son. The silhouette’s arm shot out and she was thrown back against the wall with a low thump. Sam stared, horror struck, as she was forced slowly to the ceiling, as the blood began to spread on her nightgown.

            The silhouette was suddenly lit by the sourceless light of dreams. Sam saw the spikey hair and the familiar jacket. He turned slowly to face Sam and every night, for the most fleeting of seconds, Sam would feel a relief so profound it hurt. Dean was here! Dean would save them! But then the thing that had been his brother would smile, the eyes consumed with blackness and Mary’s scream rent the air apart and Sam’s anguished yell would join the piercing shriek and fire would engulf the world, their flames scorching and his brother would laugh and –

            Sam jerked awake, drenched in sweat, panting.

            For a few moments he lay as still as his heaving lungs allowed. Terror and pain old and new thundered through him. He rode it out, trying to think only of the air _whoosh_ ing in and out of his open mouth. Slowly the effects of the dream drained away, leaving him more exhausted than he had been before his sleep.

            Too restless to lie down, he got up and took a shower, washing the remnants of the nightmare down the drain. He spent longer than was strictly necessary under the weak jets of too-hot water. He tried to focus on the sensation of the water running over him, tracing each tiny rivulet with his mind. He breathed slowly and kept his eyes closed, letting the water sluice over him and thud down into the tub, the sound amplified in the small washroom.

            Feeling calmer, he left the sanctuary of the shower. The shirt he’d worn the day before had thin lines of blood all over the front, so he dug out a fresh one and buttoned it up.

            The laptop dinged shrilly.

            Pausing on the second-last button, Sam leant forward on the bed and pulled the computer towards him. A flashing window had popped up on the screen, over the paused video of Dean beating a liquor store employee to death, signalling the confirmed –

            Sam’s lips pulled up in a fierce smile.

            Confirmed demon omens converging, large scale, only about eighty or so miles away. Either one hell of a gathering, or, more likely...

            “Dean,” he whispered to the empty room, the smile growing. “I’ve got you.”

 

 


	13. My Brother, My Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Danneel Harris-Ackles plays Michelle. Also a big thank you to all the readers and reviewers! I'm so glad to hear you're enjoying the story :) Author out!

            It was a two-storey motel situated inconspicuously off Interstate fifteen in Utah. It was the only building for miles, apart from a Laundromat, gas station and a small line of overpriced shops. The balconies of the Motel Magnificence were empty and still and the whole building seemed to be holding its breath. The night was close and tight, the heavy clouds so low they seemed determined to touch the aerials and satellites atop the structure, reaching for the heavens. Electrical storms had left the atmosphere charged, on the precipice of action. Waiting. Silent.

            Far too silent.

            Sam swung off the road and into the parking lot about an hour after night had truly fallen. There were three other cars in the lot, but each was covered in a fine layer of dust. The VACANCY sign flashed dully by the roadside as if any moment it would flicker out for good.

            The air was heavy with malicious intent and Sam thought he could probably have found this place computer or not. Evil was here as plainly as were the clouds and concrete.

            He pulled open the trunk of the Camaro, revealing his small arsenal to the waiting night. He double-checked that the shotgun was fully loaded and crammed a few more salt-filled shells into his pockets. His handgun was stocked with Devil’s Trap bullets, and a spare magazine waited in a small holster he’d fashioned on his belt. Finally he took out Ruby’s knife and held it firmly in hand. He rubbed a hand nervously over his breast as though reassuring himself that his new anti-possession tattoo was still there. Huffing a great breath out of his mouth, he slammed the trunk lid down and headed for a side entrance of the motel, the shotgun slung across his torso with a sturdy strap, the knife in his left hand resting beneath the heel of his right, which firmly gripped the silver pistol.

            He picked the padlock in record time and gently slid the thick chain off the wire mesh gate, setting it down as quietly as possible on the hard ground. He could hear the faint hum of someone speaking loudly just beyond the narrow alley between two sections of the motel. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was sure and confident.

            The motel had been built in a square so that the inner courtyard and swimming pool were sheltered from the busy road and bustling life of the Interstate. Several of the Motel Magnificence’s signs claimed to offer a sanctuary from the hectic life on the road, boasting too-colourful cartoonist pictures of impossibly thin and tanned women sunbathing by a giant pool while overweight businessmen enjoyed exotic cocktails.

            As Sam crept forward in a stealthy crouch, the speaker’s voice became clearer. He missed a step as he recognized it.

            “... for all of us!” Dean declared just out of sight.

            Taking a deep breath, Sam peeked around the final corner to the courtyard.

            It was packed with people. If the motel had been full to capacity there wouldn’t have been so many men and women here, even including the staff. There must have been about a hundred of them – and children too, Sam realised as he glimpsed a young girl with pigtails of frizzy black hair through the nearest bodies. She couldn’t be more than seven years old.

            They were all standing in complete silence, listening docilely to the trio atop a makeshift stage on the far side of the courtyard. The neglected swimming pool lay in the centre of the cobblestones, the water stagnant and littered with the debris of uncaring drifters.

            Dean stood tall and proud on the stage, walking along its length as he gave his address to the gathered masses. Two others stood near the middle of the stage: a man and woman, who fixed the crowd with rapture gazes, as though daring any one of them to interrupt their leader.

            The man was broad and muscular, thickset and intimidating. His black hair was slicked back with oil that glistened in the soft light. The woman had deep auburn hair that hung in gentle waves past her shoulders and wore a smile brimming with the confidence of the invincible. Both watched the scene through black eyes.

            “I brought you here,” Dean continued in a carrying voice that seemed to pass right through Sam’s heart with the force of a hurricane. God, he’d missed that voice. “So that we could start again, better, and stronger than we ever have been! Join me and experience true power!”

            What the hell was he talking about? Did he expect these people to follow him, just like that? They didn’t even seem scared. The crowd just stood there, silently listening.

            Sam swallowed, thinking fast. He had to get these people out of here, now. They acted as though they were under some sort of spell, standing so still and listening to a demon outline a bright new world for all who chose to follow him. Or else they were just plain terrified. He had to break their concentration somehow, but how?

            The answer bumped against his shoulder as he slid along the wall. A fire alarm. Perfect. He slid two fingers over the small lever and pulled hard. The alarm tore through the night, shattering the silence with a violent siren. He slunk quickly into the crowd, keeping his knees bent to avoid being seen by the demons on the stage. The people he now stood among neither flinched at the sudden blaring of the alarm nor acknowledged his sudden armed appearance in their midst.

            “Well, that’s kinda rude,” Dean said over the pulsing of the alarm. He raised a hand lazily and the alarm was cut off with an odd squeak, almost like a whimper. “I’m talking here.”

            Sam held his breath, afraid to make a sound. Some plan that was.

            Dean seemed to sniff the air, his features twisting into a smile that was more like a sneer.

            “Why don’t you stand up, Sam, so we can see you?” Dean called through the silence, coming to rest in the middle of the stage. “Come and meet my friends.”

            As one, every face turned to look at Sam. Men, women, children, all of various race and size and age regarded him through cold, black eyes.

            For a moment, fear froze his muscles solid. Every one of them. All demons. All looking directly at him.

            Swallowing his fear, Sam stood to his full height as the demons around him shuffled silently aside, making a narrow path for him to the stage. He took a few wary steps forward, gripping the knife and gun more securely in his sweating hands.

            “C’mon, Sam,” Dean said exasperatedly. “Don’t be such a wuss. Lucius and Michelle here won’t hurt you!” He mumbled something else Sam couldn’t make out and the demons tittered. “We haven’t seen each other in, like, two months. Come give big brother a hug!” He held his arms wide in invitation while the two demons behind him chuckled.

            “Dean.” His voice was far steadier than he’d expected it to be. “It’s okay. I’m – I’m going to fix you, okay? Just – just come with me and we’ll fix this.”

            Dean stared at him and for a second hope flared in Sam’s chest, but then Dean threw his head back and roared with laughter. He turned to the man behind him – Lucius – and whispered something in his ear. Lucius’s head snapped back as the demon billowed out of the body, disappearing into the black clouds.

            Sam gulped.

            “Fix it?” Dean called back, stepping forward and jumping lightly down off the stage. “Sam, Sam, Sam. Haven’t I already told you?” He strolled towards him, speaking as casually as if nothing had changed between them and they were simply discussing what to get for dinner.

            The swimming pool lay between them, the only other break in the tightly packed bodies. Dean stepped forward over the edge of the pool without a second’s hesitation. Sam expected him to fall into the green-tinged water like some cartoon character, but, amazingly, the surface held his weight. Ripples like tiny shockwaves expanded from one boot, then the other as he sauntered casually over water, as though he did this every day.

            As he came closer, Sam battled the rising irrational fear that was building inside his chest. It was just Dean, just his brother. He didn’t have to be afraid. To distract himself, he looked more closely at his brother’s changed appearance. His hair was longer than it’d been in years, his bangs hanging in graceful spikes over his eyebrows. He wore a black jacket and trousers with a faded AC/DC t-shirt visible between the jacket’s silver zips. The First Blade hung in a holster on his right thigh, secured with two thick straps around his leg. Sam knew he could bring the knife to hand in seconds if he needed to. His eyes were the familiar green, but were alight with an energy that seemed other-worldly to Sam. He looked ... well, he looked like Dean, just in slightly darker clothes and in need of a haircut and a shave, and yet Sam had to suppress a shiver. There was something about him, something almost manic about the look in his eyes that made the figure striding towards him seem ... alien.

            “There isn’t anything to fix,” he continued when he stood just a few feet from Sam, his voice low and silky and dangerous.

            Sam stared into his brother’s green eyes and saw a stranger looking back at him.

            “Dean,” he whispered, frowning. “It’s me, it’s Sam. I can help you. I know you don’t want to be like this.”

            Dean’s smile turned to a snarl. “And what would you know about it?” he snapped. “You’ve never felt this, Sam. Never. You can’t begin to imagine how it feels, this power, this, this ...” He struggled to find the right word. “This life!”

            “No, I know you don’t mean that, Dean, I know –”

            “Oh, yes, _little brother_ ,” he sneered, “I really, really do.”

            Michelle appeared suddenly behind Dean’s left shoulder, her lips parting to show perfect white teeth as she smiled, savouring the scene before her. Beside her, another body blinked suddenly into existence, and Sam flinched in surprise. It was a clown.

            A freaking _clown_. Complete with rainbow hair and too-big shoes and –

            Black eyes.

            “Ah, Lucius. Good work,” Dean drawled, half-glancing behind him at the newcomer. “Have you met my brother, Sam? He _loooves_ clowns. I think you two’d get on just great.”

            “Oh come on,” Sam groaned as the clown-demon lunged forward and suddenly the anticipation that had charged the air since he had arrived broke and the courtyard exploded into activity. Demons attacked from all sides and Sam sliced, shot and kicked in all directions, just managing to keep a tiny bubble of space around himself, giving him room to fight.

            Demons roared in delight at the sport, tearing in at him from all sides, their numbers overwhelming him. Fists made contact with his torso and he gasped for breath, slicing the offending arms before they could be drawn back to safety. Invisible forces tore at him and he cried out in pain as his insides seemed to be torn apart, but when he spared a second to glance down at his body, there was no sign of any blood. He fought with a ferocity he’d rarely felt, desperate to get away, trying to break through the endless bodies that stood between him and his only chance of escape.

            Dean and the woman had vanished at some point during the fray, and Sam caught a glimpse of them back on the stage, watching him fight for his life as they laughed, arms around each other as though pausing to watch a street performer while on a date.

            Knowing this was a battle he couldn’t hope to win alone, he sucked in a great breath and roared, _“CAS!”_

            A boot to his abdomen forced him to stagger back, trying to suck in more air and finish the prayer as he parried blow after blow, his pistol spitting bullets with small bursts of fiery light.

            He was losing. There was too many of them. He was alone. Dean wasn’t helping. Cas was too far away to get here with no wings. He was alone.

            He was going to die.

            His strikes became slower as his energy failed, sucked dry by the pace of the battle and the pain sparking through him.

            The demons were toying with him, he knew. Any one of them probably could have killed him with a snap of their fingers, but instead they used their hands and tiny ropes of invisible magic pulling at his insides. Pummelling him with their meat suits, overwhelming him, beating him down –

            The air shimmered in a silent concussion and Sam was thrown to the hard ground. Another wave of power pulsed through the night and the demons around him fell back with cries of surprise and pain. The force had come from right behind Sam and for one glorious moment he knew as he turned he’d see his brother finally come to save him, or maybe Cas, whole and strong once more, but not –

            “Crowley?” he yelled over the cries and shrieks of the demons.

            Crowley stood hunched over beside Sam, his dark suit in tatters and his face bloody. Something thin hung around his neck, like a pendant.

            “SAM!” he bellowed, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. “We gotta go!”

            Before he could begin to protest, the air shifted again. The last thing Sam saw was a fleeting glance of his brother. His face was contorted in terrible rage and he seemed caught in a freeze-frame, locked in a motionless battle stance, his hand on the Blade’s hilt, eyes black and mouth open in a bellow of fury.

            Then the air punched right through Sam, and he seemed to collapse into the blackness of his brother’s eyes.


	14. Weary Wings

            Castiel sat in the armchair of the ex-god’s office. Enjoying a rare break in the seemingly endless parade of requests and reports, he stared calmly into the empty fireplace opposite the grand mahogany desk.

            It was a simple fireplace. Just a square-ish hole carved out of the wall with a small metal stand on which the logs could burn. There was no grill or decoration around it. It was simple. Humble. Intended to be used to keep people warm and offer comfort in the darkness of night. Of course, angels didn’t get cold. Cas found it almost funny that Metatron had included it in his office-heaven. Everything else was lavish and grand. Only the fireplace remained untouched by the old scribe’s splendour.

            He suspected the entire room was constructed to match the description of some famous character’s usual haunt, or that of one of Metatron’s favourite authors. The passage in question was probably somewhere in the heap of stories in the back of Cas’s mind, but he had neither the inclination nor the energy to bother looking for it. Sifting through so much information and sensations was exhausting, and he was tired enough as it was.

            More than tired.

            He leant back in the cushiony chair, forcing his tense muscles to relax. His body ached constantly now. He wondered if this was how old age felt, or the late stages of cancer, or if you were hit by a double decker bus, or stabbed with a Morgul blade.

            They all sounded about right. He was under no illusions, though. He knew it was the Grace. Jimmy Novak’s body would never age again. When Castiel died, it would die with him.

            Jimmy had been gone for years now. Cas often missed the man’s background thoughts and sensations. They’d never been all that noticeable, but sometimes, when he would find himself with nothing to do – which was rare – he would listen in to the whispers of his host’s mind. Jimmy was rarely aware of what Castiel was doing. Instead, he relived favoured memories as though in Heaven. That had always made Cas smile. Few minds were aware enough to spend their time as vessels so wisely. Most would alternate between a nothingness like being unconscious, and the blinding terror of being possessed by an angel. Jimmy had been that way at first.

            After Castiel’s ‘re-education’, when Jimmy had begged him to return to his body and leave his daughter, he had changed. Perhaps it was because he then knew what to expect, but from that night onwards, whenever he was conscious, or as conscious as a vessel’s mind ever is, he spent his time remembering his family. His first date with his wife-to-be. The day she told him she was pregnant. The moment they had agreed on the name Claire in the hospital after the baby was born.

            Castiel had never disturbed the mumbling memories in the back of his head. He wished he could hear them again now. But Jimmy had been gone ever since God or Lucifer or whoever the hell it was brought him back all those years ago in Stull Cemetery, in Lawrence, Kansas.

            He’d visited Jimmy once or twice over the years. He’d made himself a wonderful heaven, filled with the safety and love he had lacked in his final years on Earth. There his family was forever safe and happy, and he watched his baby daughter grow up over and over again, fell in love with Amelia over and over again. It was a simple heaven, as they all were, really, but it was one of Castiel’s favourites.

            Frankly he was glad Jimmy hadn’t been around to suffer alongside Cas. He was far better off tucked securely behind Heaven’s sealed doors, and for that, Cas was grateful. Just thinking of the man gave Castiel a sense of peace.

            _CAS!_

            He jerked up as the single word thudded into his consciousness. For one bizarre moment he thought it was Jimmy Novak, but soon recognised the echoing voice of Sam Winchester. A Sam Winchester in obvious distress. Cas straightened in the armchair, his broken wings extending automatically to carry him to his friend’s side. The stinging pinpricks of stretching charred, featherless skin gave the ex-angel pause. He couldn’t leave Heaven, and even if he could it would take him hours to find Sam.

            A sharp trio of knocks on the office door broke the silence, distracting Cas from the Winchester’s call.

            Gathering his thoughts, he called for the knocker to enter. The door swung inwards and Hannah stepped inside and stood dutifully in front of the large desk. Cas half-expected her to salute.

            “Castiel,” she greeted formally.

            “Hannah,” He dipped his head in greeting.

            “I have the reports, if you’d like to hear them now.”

            He nodded for her to continue, gesturing to one of the chairs. She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

            “Any word from the angels in the archives?” Cas asked, hope flickering dimly in his gut.

            “I’m afraid not. They’ve combed thousands of tomes and scrolls, but they’re no closer to unsealing Heaven.” Hannah’s disappointment was clear and mirrored Cas’s own.

            “What of the spellmasters?”

            “No luck reversing the spell either. We’re still limited to the portal. Albus does think he might be on to something, but he says it’s too soon to tell if it’ll be of much help. I told them to carry on.”

            “Good. Anything else?”

            Hannah nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “We have more and more reports coming of the Winchester demon.” She paused as though expecting him to scold her. Instead he sighed and gestured for her to continue.

            “There have been three more massacres we can trace directly to him, and another two we’re sure were done on his command. The death toll is estimated at about three hundred and forty from these new attacks alone.”

            “Any link between the targets?” Cas asked with a heavy heart. He hated talking about this. It was bad enough that the man he had rebelled for was now a murderous demon, but having to unravel the meaning behind the slaughters was depressing.

            “None we can see. We still haven’t figured out the pattern, either. Although now there are only six states he hasn’t hit yet.”

            “And what about the ordinary demons? Any halt in their activity?”

            Hannah ran a hand through her think hair, letting out a nervous sigh. “No. In fact, it’s only growing.”

            “Still?” Cas asked, amazed.

            “Still. I can’t tell how they’re all getting out of Hell in such numbers, but the demon population on Earth has almost doubled this last month.”

            “Doubled?” he whispered, horror struck. “How many does that make it?”

            Hannah considered. “Somewhere in the low hundreds, we think.”

            “Damn.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And you’re sure Dean is behind it?”

            “Who else could rally them like this?”

            “Crowley maybe?”

            “There’s been no sign of him in weeks. The demons we’ve interrogated all believed him dead.”

            “Maybe he is,” Cas allowed reluctantly. He really wanted Crowley to be alive. So he could kill him.

            “Castiel,” Hannah said, her tone slightly pleading. “We can’t let this go on. Hundreds of humans are dying daily. We are their protectors and we’re letting them be slaughtered like cattle!”

            “You don’t think I know that?” Cas growled, anger rising as he leant forward in the armchair. “The Veil is bursting and there’s nothing we can do about it. I have angels looking for Dean, a dozen of them set with the task of killing any and every demon they find, but it hardly seems to be making a difference.” Despair replaced anger and he stared morosely at the wood grain under his palms.

            “Then clearly we have to try harder.”

            Cas looked up, incredulous. “Harder?”

            Hannah nodded, her eyes guarded and professional as she elaborated. “You ordered that platoon to find Dean Winchester. They’re good soldiers but they don’t even know what to do if they ever do find him.” She leant forward and her voice fervent. “Castiel, this is nearing par with the carnage wrought by Cain himself. Dean is younger, stronger, far more determined, and there’s no sign of him slowing down. We can’t sit by as he creates more Knights of Hell and consumes the human world!”

            Cas closed his eyes. He was so, so tired. His shoulders and heart felt so heavy. The stolen Grace burned dully in his chest. He knew he was running out of time. A few more weeks at best. He could not leave this mess for his angels to clean up. Most of them were still acclimating to the mission of protecting humanity. Some still hadn’t been home in over a year. Those who were in Heaven were effectively trapped since the portal was so small and took so long to be activated. Not to mention the damn thing kept moving. If the gatekeepers lost track of it for a moment it would be lost forever.

            “Dean must be stopped,” he said at last. His voice sounded dull and dead to him. Unfamiliar. “By any means necessary, he must be stopped. Tell the angels ... that if they find him, if they can’t contain him ... they must kill him.”

            He raised his head and met Hannah’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with an empathy that was rare among the angels. He was proud of how much she cared. That didn’t eclipse the hollow weight of betrayal he felt in his gut at his decision. He knew Dean could never be saved, and he was certain that the old hunter would rather be dead than live and kill as a demon, but even so. He was his best friend.

            But he was dead. He had been for over two months now. Ever since the moment Metatron’s blade had pierced his frail, human heart. What had awoken in his body was not Dean Winchester. It merely wore his face.

            “I’ll give the order. And ...” Hannah hesitated, unsure. “Castiel, I know he was your friend and this must be hard for you, but ... We need to know how many Knights he’s created. We must know what we’re up against. And that information ... might not be freely given.”

            Cas stared at her wearily for a long moment. “You’re asking me to authorise torturing this information out of him.”

            “Yes. For the greater good, yes.”

            Silence oozed in to fill the office as Castiel thought. Part of him found the idea as abhorrent as that of having Dean killed. A larger part wanted to make the abomination that had stolen his friend’s corpse feel some small fraction of the pain he and Sam felt.

            Sam. He would never forgive Cas if he allowed this to happen.

            Closing his eyes against the weight of his world, he took a deep breath and answered, knowing the leaden words would need extra air to make it all the way to Hannah’s ears.

            “All right. I give it.”

            “You’re doing the right thing, Castiel.” She offered the words as a balm to soothe his suffering.

            “Yes. I know. Thank you, Hannah.” He looked up at her kind eyes. “I appreciate your companionship.”

            She smiled, her face lighting up. “And I yours.”

            They smiled at each other for a moment.

            “Oh!” Hannah exclaimed suddenly, her brows pulling down in worry once more. “I almost forgot – the Reapers have been –”

            A frantic rapping on the wooden doors drowned the rest of her sentence. Hannah and Castiel looked to the door, startled.

            “Come in,” Cas called, and before his words had faded from the air the door burst open and Ingrid almost fell into the room.

            “Castiel!” she cried, panting for breath.

            “What is it?” Cas asked, rising swiftly from the chair. “What’s happened?” He kept his voice low and commanding, trying to break through the angel’s obvious terror.

            “It’s Adriel,” she gasped. “He’s dead!”

            Castiel shared a horrified glance with Hannah before turning back to Ingrid. “Show me.”

 

            Four angels had gathered around the body. Adriel lay on his back, his arms and legs sprawled. His broken wings were scorched onto the floor and walls. The reason for Ingrid’s panic soon became apparent.

            Adriel’s eyes were burnt out of their sockets.

            “It can’t be,” Hannah whispered, aghast. “It ... it can’t be.”

            “It is,” Ingrid retorted, unnecessarily harsh in her fear. “He was murdered for his Grace.”

            “But ... who would do this?”

            All eyes turned to Castiel.

            He suppressed a groan. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m still dying, thanks.”

            “No,” Hannah explained. “Who do you think would do this? We know you’d never kill another angel.”

            _Oh. What a pleasant change,_ Cas thought.

            “I have no idea,” he answered honestly. “No angel needs a second Grace, I doubt they could even contain it, unless –” He stopped dead as he realized who would know just how to absorb a second Grace.

            “What?” Hannah pressed, leaning forward unconsciously.

            “Metatron,” he growled.

            Hannah and Ingrid shared a dubious glance.

            “But ...” Hannah began uncertainly.

            “He’s locked away in the most secure place in Creation,” Ingrid finished. “Or one of, anyway. How could he do this?”

            “Adriel was one of his guards –”

            “But we’re nowhere near the prison,” Kerubiel cut across him, speaking for the first time.

            “I know that,” Cas continued. He made an effort to keep his frustration out of his voice. “But if he had help –”

            “Are you suggesting some of us are still following that traitor?” Ingrid demanded.

            “Not you, Ingrid,” Cas replied softly, knowing how ashamed she must feel for being the ex-god’s assistant. “But who else would kill another angel? Who else would even think of absorbing another Grace? And if he’s safe inside his cell – which I don’t doubt – then he must have had help, which means” – he paused to meet the eyes of every angel gathered in turn – “that Metatron isn’t the only traitor in Heaven.”

            The angels exchanged worried glances.

            “But ... who?” Hannah’s brow was creased in confusion.

            “How will we discover them?” Kerubiel asked, worry etched in his face.

            “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the answers. But,” he reassured them, “I know where to get them.”


	15. Silvertongue

            Sariel stood dutifully at the entrance of Heaven’s prison. He was surprised to see Castiel himself arrive with his small entourage of angels.

            “Castiel,” he rumbled, his deep voice booming from his dark lips. “What brings you to the dungeon? I was expecting Adriel.”

            “Adriel is dead,” Cas replied by way of a greeting.

            Sariel’s bright blue eyes widened in shock. “Dead?”

            “Murdered. For his Grace,” Hannah explained.

            “Murdered! But, who would do such a thing?” Sariel looked to each face in turn. “And why have you come to me?”

            “We believe your prisoner is responsible.”

            “Metatron? Castiel, I assure you, he hasn’t left his cell since he entered it! And I have been at my post every minute. He cannot have done this.”

            “Not directly,” Cas allowed, “but nevertheless, I believe him to be responsible for Adriel’s death.”

            Sariel’s dark brow crumpled in confusion. “But then you must mean – surely you don’t think others are working on his behalf?”

            “That’s exactly what I think. We’ve come for answers.”

            Sariel nodded solemnly and led the way to the single occupied cell.

            “Well, well!” Metatron exclaimed at the sight of his visitors. “Castiel! Long time no see. Hello, Ingrid,” he added, fixing her with an intent stare. “I’ve missed you.”

            Ingrid shifter her weight uncomfortably and averted her eyes. Cas stepped forward, commanding Metatron’s attention.

            “Adriel is dead.”

            Metatron met Castiel’s hostile gaze with a look of shocked horror and abject misery.

            “Adriel?” he whispered. “D-Dead?” His eyes filled with tears. “But how?”

            “He was murdered,” Cas informed him, paying no mind to his apparent sorrow. “For his Grace.”

            Confusion joined the tears in the old scribe’s eyes as he considered what he’d heard.

            “And you think I did this?” he asked, aghast.

            “Who else would?” Hannah retorted, though she looked less convinced than she had minutes before.

            “I, well, the only person I can think of who would have cause to kill another angel,” Metatron thought aloud, “is ... Castiel.”

            “Really Metatron,” Sariel said in his deep, calm voice. “You can’t possibly believe he would do such a thing – not now in our time of peace!”

            “Of course I didn’t kill him,” Castiel snapped. “My Grace is still burning away. I know you did this, Metatron,” he added, turning back to face the offender. “I should have known you wouldn’t just give up and leave us be.”

            “Me? Come now, Castiel, how could I kill anyone, even if I wanted to? I’m stuck in here for eternity. I don’t have Gadreel to break me out.” There was a subtle note of accusation to his tone that stoked the embers of Castiel’s grief and anger.

            “Don’t take me for a fool!” he growled. “You have a silver tongue, Metatron. Tell me who you’ve corrupted with your lies! Who killed Adriel?”

            Metatron hung his head, obscuring his eyes as a tear dripped down into his unruly beard.

            “For one who has sought forgiveness so often, you’re very slow to give it, Castiel.”

            Castiel bristled and reigned in his temper, willing himself not to reach through the bars and try to throttle the old angel.

            Hannah, Ingrid, Kerubiel and Sariel exchanged weighted glances as they waited to see how Castiel would react. Several of them seemed to think Metatron had a point.

            “I have sought forgiveness,” Cas hissed, his voice low and furious. “And even when I knew it could never be given, I tried to change and be worthy of it. And it was always given to me, whether I was worthy or not. But never from angels. To them, I had to prove myself worthy of a second chance, and I have, Metatron. What have you done to prove yourself to me, to us? Nothing.”

            Not trusting himself to stay any longer in the prison, Cas whirled round in a flurry of trench coat and stalked back up the corridor.

            “Send for Amitiel,” he barked over his shoulder at Hannah close on his heels. “She’ll find the truth here. Tell her to find out who killed Adriel and why – by any means she deems necessary.”

            Hannah glanced uneasily at Castiel’s broad shoulders as she trotted to keep up with his long strides. Amitiel was not one to be trifled with. She never rested until she found the truth. Her methods were ... harsh. There was no doubt that she would succeed, but even so. Calling upon her expertise was a bold move that many had regretted.

            Still, Hannah did not dare test Castiel’s anger. Instead, she gave one curt nod and replied, “Right away, Castiel.”


	16. What’s In A Name?

            Melanie Harker was having a fantastic week. She had spent the last seven days amassing all amassable knowledge of Cain, son of Adam. She knew more about him than scholars who had dedicated their lives to studying him and his legendary family. She had one distinct advantage over all those professors and Ph.D.s.

            She knew Cain was real.

            While most hunters and demons thought the man dead, she knew for a fact he was still alive. Alive, and in hiding. That was the last important fact she knew about the firstborn son of Adam and Eve.

            He was not the demon she sought.

            It didn’t fit his M.O. to suddenly start rampaging again. After falling in love or whatever, he’d ditched the First Blade and become a recluse, so much so that even his fellow demons assumed he was dead. There had been no sign of activity from him since the night he killed his creations: the Knights of Hell.

            The demon chained to a chair in the front room of the abandoned house downstairs was going to provide the final pieces of the puzzle.

            She’d left him to stew in his own terrified juices as she ‘prepared the knives’. Really she’d just been sitting on the abandoned bed for twenty minutes, listening to the pitiful snuffling of the Hellspawn downstairs and the endless patter of the heavy rain pummelling the ruined house.

            Deciding he’d had enough, she pulled her meanest looking knife from her bag, and sauntered downstairs, ensuring every footstep was overly loud and slow. The whimpering intensified.

            The knife was a beauty. It was just under a foot long from tip to the end of the leather-bound hilt and you could almost cut yourself just looking at its gleaming edges. Practically, it was quite useless: too long and cumbersome for a real fight. Its value lay in its appearance. The long, curved blade whispered of elegance and death, with one edge as sharp as a rapier and the other serrated with vicious teeth that could hook around organs and pull them out of the body, letting the victim have a good long look at their guts as they very slowly bled to death.

            It was perfect for getting information.

            Although, Melanie didn’t really think she’d need it tonight. The demon occupying the already dead body of a middle-aged Chinese guy was no hero. He’d probably tell her how to destroy Hell itself before letting her touch him with this fine piece of steel. Not that he’d know how to destroy Hell. She doubted he knew much at his pay grade. In fact, there were only three reasons she was interested in him at all.

            One, he was a demon. She killed demons. Period.

            Two, he was a survivor. She’d already learned enough about him to know that he was old, at least eighty years and possibly closer to a hundred. Demons only lived that long if they knew who to back and who to avoid.

            And three, he had made an enemy of the new boss.

            “So then,” she began conversationally, leaning against the rotted doorjamb of the front room, absent-mindedly running her fingertips over the grooves in the leather hilt. The demon shivered in fright, beads of sweat trickling down his chubby face. “I believe you know the name of the guy I’m looking for.”

            The demon shook harder, whimpering pathetically as he eyed the knife. “P-Please, I’ll tell you, I will, j-just don’t hurt me, okay? I’ll tell you.”

            “Less promising, more doing,” she ordered in a bored voice. She swung away from the doorframe and sat in the chair opposite the demon, safely outside the portable iron Devil’s Trap she kept in the trunk of her car at all times. It fit nicely in the old Ford.

            She held the knife casually in one hand, allowing the light of the camping lamp flicker off the shiny surface into the demon’s black eyes.

            He gulped audibly.

            “Okay, okay, so – so you wanna know –”

            “And can we stop the charade?”

            “Ch-charade? What are you talking about?”

            Melanie rolled her eyes and leant forward, locking her brown eyes with the demon’s black ones.

            “Come on. Let’s not waste time and effort on this act of yours.”

            “W-What act? What are you talking about!” the demon shrieked, his courage quailing as she twirled the knife absentmindedly.

            “I’ve heard of you, Jethro.” The demon flinched at the sound of his name. “How d’you think I was able to find you as easily as I did? I summoned you, after all. I know your name. And,” she continued, glancing down at the knife. “I know you’re no coward. So drop the act, eh?”

            For a moment Jethro continued to sweat, his breath shivering in and out over moistened lips, terror lining his face. Then, in a split-second, his demeanour changed. His breath stilled and the quivering lips formed an easy, confident smile. He straightened as much as the ropes would allow and cocked his head to the side, evaluating the hunter.

            “Well, then,” he said, his voice more sure and steady than it had been moments before, his stutter gone. “Not just a pretty face.”

            “Nope.” Melanie smiled back, unafraid. “I got brains, too. So how about we make a deal then, yeah?”

            “I’m listening.”

            _No shit,_ Melanie thought, _you’re tied to a chair_. She bit back her flippant tongue a moment before making her offer. “You tell me what I want to know about your new boss, and I won’t send you back to Hell.”

            Jethro was silent as he considered it.

            “You’re lying.”

            “Am I?” she asked sweetly.

            “I know who you are, Melanie Harker.”

            Melanie pretended to blush. “My my, a fancy demon knows my name. This must be how Beyoncé feels.”

            “You kill demons. One of the best.”

            “True, and I’m offering not to kill you. If you tell me what I need.”

            “You’ll just let me go out of the goodness of your heart?” Jethro asked sceptically.

            “Not at all. It’s a deal. You keep your end, I keep mine. Simple as that.”

            “Liar.”

            “I could just kill you now,” she offered, gesturing with the knife, the light glinting off the small symbols etched in the steel. “Death or Hell. Your choice.”

            That gave him pause.

            “Alright,” he said at last. “We have a deal. What do you want to know?”

            “Your new boss. This ‘Lord of Demons’ I’ve heard so much about –”

            “He’s more than that,” the demon chuckled.

            Mel quirked her head to the side, cocking one dark and perfectly plucked eyebrow. “More? What do you mean, ‘more’?”

            “I mean he’s the most powerful demon any of us have ever seen.”

            “More powerful than Cain?”

            “Cain?” He scoffed. “Cain was a brute. He made his little Knights of Hell and he killed a few hundred people and it was all very sad and mankind forgot about it centuries ago.”

            “And you don’t think they’re gonna forget what your Lord of Demons has done lately?”

            “Pft. Of course not. You’ve been watching the news, right?”

            Of course she had. Every night was another tragedy. A station full of policemen attacking a town in Missouri for no reason, the drastic increase in crime nationwide – the signs were there for all to see. Of course, most people were blind to what was staring them right in the face. But not hunters.

            “I’ve caught it once or twice,” she allowed, twisting one of the iron rings she wore with the hand still holding the knife. They were handy, these rings. She wore four on each hand. They made punching ghosts and demons far more effective. And satisfying.

            “All those people, normal, good, perfect people suddenly going postal over nothing? All the crimes, all the murders, all the massacres? That’s not just people having enough of their boring little lives. That’s him. And he’s only just getting started.”

            “Your Lord of Demons?”

            “Yes.”

            “He’s behind all of it?”

            “Yep.”

            “Well, ain’t he a busy bee. How?”

            Jethro laughed as lightning flashed through the cracks in the boarded up windows. “I said I’d talk, I didn’t say I’d condemn myself!”

            “Condemn yourself to what?”

            “Why do you think I’ve been running?” Fear, real fear, crept into his black eyes. “I made him mad. He’s out for my blood. If he finds me, if he finds out I told you anything about what he’s planning, how he’s doing it, I’m worse than dead.”

            “Yeah, boohoo,” Melanie snapped, reaching down to the floor and grabbing the flask of holy water by her chair. She untwisted the lid and threw a crystal-like ribbon of water over the demon. Jethro roared in pain as his skin hissed and burned. Steam curled off him in graceful spirals.

            “Spare me your sob story. Get back to the point,” she continued over the grunts of pain. “Why are you so afraid of this guy?”

            “Because,” he snarled, the words contorted with rage and pain. “He is more than just some demon out for power. He is the Son of Cain.”

            These words clearly didn’t have the effect he was hoping for.

            “The what now?”

            “The Son of Cain!” Jethro shouted, his voice echoed by a roll of distant thunder.

            “Cain never had children. He has no son. His descendants are just –”

            “Fool!” he hissed, leaning as far forward as the tension in the ropes would allow. “Dean Winchester is not a son of the blood! He’s a son of the Mark!”

            Ah, finally. She had the name. Dean Winchester. The satisfaction of a mystery solved swept through her and she savoured every second of it.

            But wait. _Winchester_. Hadn’t she always told Rupert the world would be in trouble if either of the Winchesters turned against them? They may have stopped an apocalypse or two, but the Winchesters were cursed. Everyone around them died, and they never cared.

            “Mark?” she asked, masking her glee with a scowl. “You mean the Mark of Cain?”

            “Exactly! He has the Mark and the Blade and nothing can stop him!”

            The fear in Jethro’s voice wasn’t adding up.

            “Then why are you running from him? Cain was like a god to your kind before. Why aren’t you grovelling at this Dean guy’s feet, worshiping him?”

            “Because!” he spat through gritted teeth. “He’s not just some demon! He’s more!”

            “What do you mean ‘more’?” Mel pressed, her patience wearing thin.

            “He’s not just some brute killing for the fun of it! Not all the time! He has a plan!”

            “What plan?” she asked, too quickly.

            Jethro shook his head, falling back against the back of the chair. “No. No, I can’t.”

            Melanie rolled her eyes again and reached once more for the flask.

            Jethro saw the cap twist off the bottle and straightened his back.

            “Do it,” he challenged. “I don’t care. I was wrong – the deal’s off. He – the things he’ll do to me if he finds out? It’s nothing compared to what you and your little pig-sticker can do.”

            Melanie rose to her feet, considering the demon’s resolve. She set the bottle down and twirled the knife in her hands as he watched her with determined eyes.

            “You sure?”

            He nodded. “What he’ll do to me ... what he’s capable of ... You can’t imagine.” The fear in his eyes was quickly turning to terror. “You’d be doing me a favour, killing me. At least then I’d be safe.”

            Melanie’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Just talking about this Dean demon was making this guy suicidal. Well, she’d gotten what she wanted. The rest could wait.

            She shrugged and plunged the knife hilt-deep into the demon’s chest. Orange fire flashed behind the skeleton, illuminating the skull and ribs as the demon died, screaming in pain.

            That was the other reason Melanie kept this showy blade. It had been made by the Kurds.

            She wrenched the blade out of the corpse and cleaned it on the dead man’s clothes. She’d bury the Chinese guy tomorrow, once the rain stopped. Then she’d leave an anonymous tip at the local sheriff’s office, get the poor guy’s family some closure.

            Closure she’d never gotten.

            Shaking her head to keep her thoughts on track, she snatched up the flask of holy water and headed back up the stairs to her waiting sleeping bag.

            Today had been a good day. Now she had the final ingredient.

            The name. Dean Winchester.

            She didn’t care if he was the lord of universe, she would have him. She would feel his blood trickle down her arm as she gutted him. He would pay for killing Max. Nothing could stop her now.

            Melanie Harker smiled a rare, wide, satisfied grin.

            Dean was hers.


	17. The King and the Moose

            “Oh hell!” Crowley groaned, rolling onto his side and trying to suck in a full breath. “Not gonna lie. That one hurt. Ow.”

            It felt as though a buffalo or Melissa McCarthy was sitting on his chest, crushing him. He gasped and the pressure mercifully eased up a bit. Another heaving breath and he felt alive enough to uncurl himself from the foetal position and prop himself up on one elbow.

            Sam was gasping on the ground beside him, no doubt experiencing a similarly lung-crushing pressure after the jump.

            “What the h-hell,” Sam puffed, “was that!”

            “Good question. I know I’m outta shape, but still, we only teleported, like, a mile.”

            Sam shot Crowley a murderous glare as he heaved himself up onto his knees. The gun and knife were still clutched in his hands, and he raised the blade to the level of Crowley’s throat.

            “What the _hell_ was that!”

            Crowley sat up and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Winchesters. Honestly! I just saved your life, and you put a knife to my throat. How about a bloody thank you!”

            “Thank you,” Sam growled, edging closer with the blade held ready. “Goodbye, Crowley.” He lunged forward, thrusting with the knife. Crowley dodged, spinning to his feet with surprising agility.

            “That’s IT!” he roared. “You want the whole damn world to die? FINE! I’ve had it. I’m sick of you jackasses trying to kill me every time I try to help, you sorry sons of b –”

            “What are you taking about?” The rage had faded from Sam’s voice. He was calmer, but he didn’t lower the knife. “What do you mean the world’s gonna die?”

            Crowley considered him for a long moment. He dusted down his tattered suit, the pendant on his neck swinging slightly as he bent over.

            “Look, Sam,” he said at last, his voice quiet and calm. “Last time we saw each other, I know ... I know you don’t trust me and I know you want me dead. But right now, there’re bigger things going on than just you and me. And you must know that that coming from a demon must be worth a listen!”

            Sam lowered the knife, but kept a firm grip on the hilt. Crowley had a point. Whatever he was talking about sounded pretty apocalyptic. Buying himself more time to think, he looked around them. They had landed in the parking lot of a shopping mall. There were a handful of cars parked here and there, and the night was lit by tall lampposts towering over the small bushes between the aisles of empty car spaces. The lamp closest to them was flickering between a dim yellow and an almost-gone orange as the bulb slowly died in its socket. The intermittent light illuminated Crowley’s face, and Sam had to admit, he looked almost as though he wasn’t lying.

            “I’m putting you in a Devil’s Trap.”

            Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine, I don’t care, but not here, alright? Too open.” He held out a hand. “C’mon, Moose. Let’s go to your Batcave. That should be safe.”

            Sam eyed the outstretched hand warily. “Yeah, like I’m just gonna let you take me to a horde of demons to –”    

            “If I wanted you dead or captured I’d have left you back at that motel,” he snapped, his temper rising. “Sam, we really don’t have time for this. Dean can track you.”

            “I’m wearing a hexbag.”

            “Not enough.” He plucked the thong he wore around his neck, and Sam looked at it more closely. It was a simple chord running through what looked like bits of bone and dried herbs, and a few shells etched with spellwork. “This’ll hide you. I have a spare, specially for you.” He pulled a second necklace from his trouser pocket and held it out to Sam.

            Wondering what sort of trick this was, he took it somewhat reluctantly.

            “C’mon, you moron, it’s not gonna work in your hands. Gotta be around the biggest blood flow – neck and heart.”

            Well, that explained the undue length. Grudgingly, Sam pulled the pendant over his neck and let it settle against his chest.

            “Right, we good?” Crowley asked belligerently, holding out his hand once more.

            Deciding he had nothing to be gained by staying here, Sam reached out and clasped the demon’s hand.

            “Better. Now I don’t know where this bunker thing is exactly, so you need to focus on the location, got it? Think hard. Of the doorstep – who knows how many goons Dean has posted there. We’ll have to be quick.”

            Clenching his jaw in anxiety, Sam nodded. He closed his eyes and pictured every detail he could remember of the doorway to the bunker. He nodded again and felt a jerk in his abdomen.

            He opened his eyes to the dark metal door of the bunker.

            He looked round at Crowley, whose hand had jerked out of his. The demon was leaning against the wall, doubled over and spitting blood.

            Sam frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

            Crowley just shook his head, gesturing to the door and gasping. “Not here. Inside. Hurry.”

            Feeling more and more anxious by the minute, Sam pulled out the key and unlocked the door.

            Crowley made no attempt to grab at any scrolls or weapons or do anything once inside the Men of Letters’ home. He just followed Sam to the dungeon with an uneven step.

            Once inside, he collapsed into the chair left inside the Devil’s Trap. That, Sam decided, was definitely wrong. Since when had Crowley, or any demon for that matter, willingly stripped themselves of their power and locked themselves inside a Trap?

            “Ok, we’re here,” Sam said, his tone guarded. “Get talkin’.”

            Crowley glared up at him. “A whiskey would be nice.”

            Sam didn’t budge.

            “Oh come on! I just saved your life – did you not notice? At least some water then, let me wash out the taste of blood!”

            Inhaling deeply through his nose, Sam hesitated a moment, then turned and left the dungeon. He returned moments later with two bottles of Dean’s semi-secret store of whiskey. He handed one to Crowley, opened his own, and sat down stiffly on the other chair, outside the Devil’s Trap. He took a swig of the fiery amber liquid and set the bottle on the table beside him. The burning warmth slid down his throat like a balm, soothing his aching insides.

            “Okay. Talk.”

            Crowley took a long pull on his bottle before speaking. He seemed to be lost in the flavour of the booze and drunk like a man dying of thirst.

            Sam cleared his throat. Crowley chugged on, oblivious. His already tested patience wearing thinner by the second, Sam asked, “So what’s up with the blood and crappy teleporting? I thought you were good at that.”

            Finally, Crowley lowered the bottle with a sigh of satisfaction. “Always savour the little things, Moose. Even the cheapest whiskey – which this is, would it kill you to at least buy mid-range slosh? If you’re gonna be an alcoholic mess, at least be a mess with the good stuff. That said, even the cheapest nosh is one of life’s simple treasures.”

            Sam raised an eyebrow. “Riiight,” he drawled. He shifted his position in the hard chair, trying to alleviate the aches of the hits he’d received earlier. His whole body ached, but his chest in particular was throbbing. He glanced down and was surprised to see his shirt was free of blood. Funny, he thought he should be bleeding.

            “The reason my teleporting’s off, since you asked so nicely,” Crowley continued, returning to his usual swagger, “is because my power’s been severely depleted. Three weeks in a draining cell tends to do that to a guy.”

            “What? A draining cell? What the hell is that?”

            “It’s what it sounds like. It’s a type of Devil’s Trap, an _oooooooold_ one,” he explained. “Derived from some angel who liked stealing power from the demons he killed. Lovely chap, I’m told,” he muttered sarcastically.

            “Dean put you in one of those?” Sam asked, incredulous. “I thought you two were BFFs now.”

            “Alas, no.” Crowley took another swig from his bottle and Sam followed suit. “I showed him how to make these new Traps, and then he threw me in one.”

            Sam frowned in confusion. Wanting Crowley out of the way, he understood. Wanting him dead, he actively endorsed, but draining his power away made no sense. Especially if it was Dean. He was supposed to be this uber-demon – why would he need any more power?

            “How about I start from the beginning?” Crowley offered, shifting into a more comfortable position in his chair.

            “Yeah, that sounds good,” he replied slowly. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Start with how you got out of this Trap last time.”

            “Oh, that.” The demon waved a hand to indicate his complete lack of interest in the subject. “That was Dean. After he left you, he ended up in a cemetery in Lawrence, coughing up blood. He summoned me.”

            “Out of a Devil’s Trap? An iron Devil’s Trap?”

            Crowley raised his eyebrows at him. “I told you he was powerful.”

            Sam stared at the bottle in his hands, stunned.

            “Anyway,” Crowley continued, “Dean summoned me, I fixed him up and we went off for some montage-worthy training.”

            “Training?” Sam scoffed.

            “Every demon needs training. You don’t just get turned with the how-to manual in your head, you’ve gotta learn.”

            “And you taught Dean?” Sam clarified, fighting an urge to laugh. “How was that?”

            Crowley’s eyes widened at the memory, like a parent remembering a particularly horrific tantrum. “I have a newfound respect for your daddy, let’s just say,” he muttered darkly. His gaze was caught in memory for a long moment. Quite suddenly he shuddered, and looked back at Sam.

            “He was a natural, truly he was.” There was a definite note of pride in the demon’s voice. Sam shifted uncomfortably. “After two days he was better than most young demons were after two weeks. He just ... got it, just like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate Dean’s speed. “I know he was never one for school,” Crowley continued, “but he aced Demonhood 101 in record time.”

            Crowley’s face darkened once more as he paused, his shining pride obscured like a sun behind storm clouds. “But he needed to kill. The Blade was calling to him, all the time, shouting, he said. It ... hurt him, to not kill.”

            Sam’s heart was feeling smaller by the minute. His brother was some sort of demon prodigy who was being forced by the biblical jawbone of some long-forgotten donkey mutant to murder innocent people. Sam imagined how hard he must have fought it.

            Doubt snaked into his mind.

            He must have fought it. He must have.

            He was just opening his mouth to have Crowley confirm his brother’s valiant efforts to resist the ancient power, when Crowley continued.

            “He was like some rabid pitbull – I mean,” he clarified, “worse than my Hellhounds. He _really_ needed to kill.” He swallowed. “So I took him to a crack den. Nothing special, just a few bums getting high.

            “Sam,” he said seriously, leaning forward in the chair, his eyes locked on the hunter’s. “I say this not only as a demon, but as the former” – he grimaced – “King of Hell. I have seen every form of torture you could imagine, and probably some you can’t. I’ve done them. I’ve seen the evil, just like you, but in a world where evil is normal.” He hesitated, eyeing Sam carefully, noting the tightly clenched jaw and fists. His voice was slightly more gentle when he spoke again. “Sam, what Dean did to those people ... I was scared.”

            Sam blinked. “ _You_ were scared?” he asked sceptically. “Of Dean?” Fearing a human demon-hunting Dean, Sam not only understood but encouraged. But a demon, especially a demon like Crowley, fearing a demonic Dean seemed ... unlikely.

            “Yes.”

            Silence stretched between them as the significance of the single word enveloped Sam.

            “Like I said,” Crowley continued conversationally, leaning back in his chair. “The boy’s a natural. You remember Alistair?”

            “Hard to forget,” Sam whispered, still reeling from Crowley’s fear.

            “Well, Dean makes Alistair look like a timid masseur.”

            Sam’s eyebrow’s shot up. “Crowley, you can’t be –”

            “Serious?” Crowley cut across him. “Deadly. And this is something you need to understand, Sam. This is vital. Dean is not the man you knew, not anymore. He is evil. Worse than Abaddon, worse than Cain himself. Worse than old Yellow Eyes by a mile. He is not your brother anymore, Sam. The Mark ... It’s a lot more powerful than even I ever imagined. But the Mark plus a soul like Dean’s is just ... We have to stop him, Sam. By any means necessary.”


	18. The War of Kingdoms

            Sam’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion and anger, each fighting for dominance. His hands were clenched around the quarter-empty bottle of whiskey, shaking. He was focusing all his energy on staying on the hard chair and not flinging Ruby’s knife with all his might into Crowley’s face.

            “So you want him dead, too, is that it?” His voice shook with barely suppressed fury. He stared at the floor, focusing on the curve of iron that arced gracefully through the ground between him and the man – the thing, he wanted to kill.

            “No.”

            He almost looked up. His eyebrows twitched in surprise.

            “No? You just said we have to stop him by any –”

            “Yes, and we do. But do I want him dead? No. Believe it or not, Moose, I’m actually quite fond of you two morons.”

            Sam snorted, still winning his staring contest with the strip of iron. “I’m guessing you’re still on human blood, then, right?”

            Crowley sighed heavily. “No, I’m not. But thanks to you two freaking do-gooders, the taint of it just won’t leave. So now I am, forever, a soppy, soft, pathetic excuse for a demon,” he snarled. “With _feelings_.”

            Sam glanced up at last to see the look of disgust on Crowley’s face. “Then why do you want to help us?”

            Crowley met his gaze and sighed again.

            “I may be a soppy, soft, pathetic excuse for a demon,” he said calmly. “But,” he added, “with the human blood and feelings, and all that crap came a somewhat human perspective.”

            Sam nodded. He wasn’t exactly sure what Crowley meant by a ‘human perspective’, but it was better than trying to kill everyone at least.

            As his anger simmered down to the usual background churning, a thought struck him.

            “What did you mean by ‘a soul like Dean’s’?”

            Crowley frowned. “Well, c’mon, Moose, he’s hardly a saint.”

            “Neither was Cain,” he retorted.

            Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, not just the monster-fighting warrior crap. His soul, Sam. It’s hardly normal.”

            “How so?”

            Crowley gaped. “How so? He’s been to Hell!”

            “So have I.” Sam shrugged.

            “And that’s normal to you, then, is it?” Crowley asked sarcastically. Before Sam could reply, he continued. “Look, it’s not just that he’d been to Hell. But the fact that he had broken and tortured who knows how many souls isn’t exactly helping matters.”

            Sam opened his mouth angrily to defend his brother, but Crowley waved a hand irritably, silencing him.

            “He’s an archangel vessel, Sam,” he said as though it was obvious. “His soul, your soul, they’re not the everyday balls of fairy light and love. Do you think any soul could’ve survived what Dean went through in Hell? What you went through? No. Being an archangel vessel isn’t just about the body or the bloodline. It’s about the soul. Yours and Dean’s, they are so much more powerful than the average. They’d have to be, to hold so much power.

            “But Cain, he wasn’t all that special. His soul was just a soul. A strong one, sure, since he was among the first, but even so, it’s nothing compared to Dean’s. When Cain received the Mark, when he became a demon, the power of the Mark and Blade expanded within him as much as possible, but not as much as it could. The Mark is the power of an angel pact – a pact with an archangel no less. You of all people know how powerful Lucifer is.

            “With Dean, because his soul is so much more powerful than Cain’s, he was able to contain more of it while still human. Killing Abaddon – that should’ve killed him. Would have, if any normal human with the Mark had tried it. And when he died, and the Mark took hold, it could expand so much more inside him than it could in Cain. Dean has powers even Cain never knew, or at least never dared use. He and the Mark, and the Blade, are one in a way Cain never was. I mean” – he gestured emphatically – “Cain was able to _stop!_ He was able to throw the Blade away and stop killing. It was hard, I’m sure, but he managed it.”

            Crowley lowered his voice as he met Sam’s distraught gaze.

            “I think there’s very little hope of Dean doing that, Sam,” he said softly. “His bond with the Mark is too strong. It might not be possible to break it, even for a second.”

            Sam shook his head, adamant. “If I can get to him, talk to him, I know he’ll snap out of it –”

            “And how’d that go for you last night, hm?” Crowley asked, unconvinced. “I know you’re brothers and you love each other and all that crap, but you need to understand this, Sam. Dean may well be beyond curing, in any form. He may well be lost.”

            Anger flurried inside him once more like the first dancing flakes that announced an oncoming storm. He stood up, whisky sloshing in the bottle with the speed of the movement.

            “Dean is _not_ lost, do you hear me!” he shouted. “I can save him, I know I can! I’m not gonna just leave him as a demon for eternity!”

            The rage flowed out of him as quickly as it had stormed in. He sat down heavily; his shoulders slumped, his chest throbbing. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed Dean. Dean would know what to do. Sam hadn’t a clue how to find him. He needed help.

            “I agree. We can’t allow him to live like this for much longer. In fact, we may only have a few months.”

            Sam sighed. Not another life-or-death deadline, emphasis on the ‘dead’. “What are you talking about?”

            “Dean’s plans. I told you, the world is going to die. Soon.”

            Patience fading faster than a doused flame, Sam took another long pull of whiskey to stop himself punching Crowley. Once he’d swallowed the burning liquid, he glared at the demon. “You gonna elaborate or what?”

            Crowley glared back. “Since you asked so nicely, yes, I will. You remember what Abaddon was planning?”

            “She was mining souls for her own personal army.” As if he was likely to forget that particular nightmare in a hurry.

            “Well, Dean’s taken up where she left off. Only he’s faster.”

            _Oh crap._

            “Dean’s ... mining ... souls?” he said slowly, horrified.

            “Yep. At quite a production rate, too. He already has a small army of die-hard loyal demons who think he’s basically their god. Any and all demons who dispute him – or annoy him, for that matter – he either kills or chucks in a draining cell so he gets even more powerful. But mostly he kills. First Blade addict and all.”

            “Why didn’t he kill you?”

            “My good looks and plucky nature – why do you think, you idiot?” Crowley snapped. “The Demon Tablet! I’m the only one on Earth or in Hell who knows anything about it! He wants all the cheats, all the secret power-up codes. He thinks I have them all, so he kept me alive. Barely,” he muttered darkly.

            “And do you?”

            “Do I what?”

            “Have all the cheats?”

            He rolled his eyes. “No, you ignoramus, I don’t. But I have enough.”

            “Enough for what?”

            “To stop Dean.”

            There was a very pregnant pause.

            “You mean you know how to kill him.”

            Crowley shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Sam’s gaze. “Not exactly,” he said, his tone evasive. “I’m not even sure if Dean and Cain _can_ be killed. I mean, they’re immortal. But there was a note or two that could prove useful.”

            “Like what?”

            Crowley shot Sam a dubious glare. “Come on, Moose. You don’t really think I’m gonna make it that easy, do you? I tell you what I know, you kill me. I enjoy living. Although,” he added, gesturing disapprovingly at their surroundings and indicating his less than healthy appearance. “I’d prefer to be bumped up a class or two.”

            Sam heaved a great sigh. This was predictable. Crowley never did anything without ensuring he got something out of it. As much as Sam really, _really_ wanted to drive his knife into that smug face right up to the hilt, he had to admit he needed help. Castiel had all but abandoned him, this was far too dangerous to include Jodie, and all the hunters he would have trusted with this mission were dead. Or they were the mission.

            He did not trust Crowley. But he didn’t doubt his knowledge of the Demon Tablet.

            Feeling dirty just thinking it, he grudgingly pulled his chair closer to the edge of the Devil’s Trap and levelled a reproachful glare at Crowley. “Do you know where Dean is gonna be?”

            Crowley smiled that self-confident smirk Sam hated. “Not precisely, but I know where his factories are.”

            “Factories?”

            “For the souls, Sam. He doesn’t bother turning them in Hell.”

            “So you can get me to him? Help me trap him?”

            Crowley nodded, his smile widening slightly.

            “And then I’ll cure him, and all bets are off. The next time I see you, I will kill you.” His voice was like steel, cold and irrefutable.

            “Yeah, yeah, I love you too, Moosie.”

            There was a short pause as Sam glared. Then, his voice serious once more, Crowley spoke.

            “You really think the cure will work?”

            “Yes.” He answered automatically and with complete confidence.

            Crowley thought a moment, silently gazing at the concrete floor.

            “I don’t know if that’s possible ...” he said slowly. He looked up at Sam. “But I hope it is.”

            Sam was surprised. “Why do you care so much?”

            Crowley pursed his lips. “Like I said, Moose. I got fond of you. But the bottom line of it is, we have to stop Dean before he can make his move.”

            “And what move is that, exactly? What is this big plan of his you’re so scared of?”

            Crowley snorted with laughter. “You think I’m the only one who’s scared? For god’s sake, Moose, haven’t you been watching the news? I’ve been in demon jail for weeks and even I know how terrified people are!”

            “Um ... no. I’ve been a little busy.” Sam ignored the flicker of guilt. He really had no idea what was happening in the wider world. World War Three could’ve broken out and he’d be completely unaware.

            “Hell’s bells, Sam, what kind of hunter are you?” Crowley exclaimed in disbelief. He shook his head, chuckling incredulously. “There’s been a boom in ghost activity, hundreds of people are going missing without a trace, mass murders – that’s mostly Dean – international travel taking a dive – literally – soulless soccer moms going full American Psycho all over the place. The Muggles don’t understand it, of course, but I thought you would have at least noticed it. Hunters haven’t been this busy since the apocalypse!”

            Sam glanced down to the floor, shame and guilt creeping like ivy around his heart. He had been so focused on Dean, he’d forgotten about the family business. _But,_ a stronger, angrier voice whispered in his head, _what’s the point of the family business when the family’s all dead? When_ _one of them is a monster Dad would have him kill?_

            He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind. He shouldn’t have to save the world. He just wanted to save his brother. The rest of the world would just have to cope.

            “I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

            “Well, while you’ve been _busy_ , Dean’s been assembling his army. That lot you pranced into last night – a great plan, by the way – was just one small batch. He’s got hundreds. Hundreds of demons loyal to him, made by him. Not to mention his Knights of Hell.”

            “His what?” Sam gasped, the colour draining from his face.

            “Lucius and Michelle. They’re not just demons. They’re Knights. And,” he continued with the air of a storyteller getting to his favourite part. “They’re in their original meat suits too.”

            “What? How’s that even possible?”

            “He stole their souls, turned them, and then told them to go back. Genius, really. So apart from Dean himself, they’re about the most powerful demons you’ll find.”

            Sam hung his head. “Great,” he groaned, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm.

            “Oh, it gets better,” Crowley went on. “All that – all the soul farming – is just to get him his soldiers. He hasn’t even started the war yet.”

            Sam looked up. “War?”

            Crowley nodded solemnly. “Not just any war. A war of Kingdoms.”

            Sam frowned. “Kingdoms? What does that mean?”

            Crowley rolled his eyes. “Heaven, Hell, Earth, Purgatory. The Four Kingdoms. All of them are linked by the Veil. Souls flow through them like water. You and I already know what you get when you mess with them. Opening Purgatory and trying to shut the gates of Hell” – he shot Sam a hateful glare – “didn’t exactly do any of us any favours.

            “But something tells me Dean disagrees with that. He’s been rounding up his forces for weeks now and there’s only one reason I can think of. He means to take Hell. There’re still enough old demons down there who are powerful enough to challenge him, if they formed ranks. His demons are all young, but there are enough of them to overwhelm all of Hell, and any unturned souls they find there will be added to his ranks. Hell’s a mess now anyway. Too many demons trying to be leader. They’ve all been too busy trying to kill each other to claim Hell’s souls, so it’s already a hell of a lot weaker than it should be. Having its king locked up for months hasn’t exactly helped.” He shot Sam another reproachful glare. “So Dean and his army will sweep over the underworld like a storm, killing every demon who doesn’t swear their eternal loyalty to him and him alone.

            “And he won’t stop there.”

            Sam gulped and leant forward. What he was hearing hardly made sense. Dean taking over hell? Dean commanding an _army?_

            “He’s been torturing Reapers for weeks,” Crowley continued after taking another long pull of whiskey. “I don’t know for sure but it would make a whole lot of sense for him to pad out his army with the souls caught in the Veil, especially since they’re so charged with energy, having been packed in there for a year. Reapers are the only creatures that can move in and out of that thing anytime they please. And I know he wants revenge on Metatron – which I actually encourage. That was a cheap shot. But he knows that with a force half the size of his he could probably overpower the Godsquad. He mentioned something about some portal backdoor? He could easily use the power of the souls he controls to rip it open, and storm the keep. They already call him Lord of Souls, and with the millions that are just waiting up there in Heaven? He’ll be unstoppable, Sam. Nothing will even be able to challenge him. With the might of Hell and the Veil behind him, Heaven will be helpless.

            “And then,” Crowley continued, his voice more serious than Sam had ever heard it. “All that’ll be left will be Earth. And it’ll be utterly defenceless. He’s promised his demon minions that they could live free in any kingdom they want. He could take a leaf out of Dick Roman’s book and set up human breeding factories so they’ll never run out of entertainment. But this time it’s not just going to be in America. He’ll go global, and there’s nothing that can stop him. Not nuclear bombs, not human armies. All the angels’ll be dead so there’ll be nothing for mankind to do but die.”

            Sam was staring transfixed at Crowley, whose eyes were filled with the same terror that had gripped Sam for years after releasing Lucifer.

            “I know I’m a demon, Sam,” Crowley went on, and Sam was amazed to see a slight moistness in his eyes. “But even I know this can’t happen. Yeah, I wanted Hell to be more powerful back in the day, but this ... Hell has its place, just like Heaven and Earth and Purgatory. If this happens, if Dean succeeds ...”

            He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Words couldn’t describe the horror the Lord of Souls was planning.

            Sam could not reconcile the atrocity of so much death to the man he knew as his brother. How could Dean possibly be planning all this? Dean would die before letting any of this happen. He had died, to stop Metatron taking over Heaven and Earth.

            Dean would never allow this to happen.

            Dean would never set a horde of demons on Sam.

            Dean would never, _never_ leave Sam.

            For the first time, Sam realised the truth. Cas had tried to tell him and he hadn’t listened. Dean, _his_ Dean, was dead. The monster controlling his body was not his brother.

            But Sam was still sure about one thing. More sure than he had ever been before. He knew his brother was still in there. Somewhere. He had to be.

            And he would free him. Before the demon could destroy him completely, as Sam knew this War of Kingdoms would, he would save him.

            He owed him that much.


	19. The Hunter and the Angel

            The loaded water gun fell into the trunk with a loud plastic _clunk_ , sending a shimmering note through the air as it collided with the folded iron Devil’s Trap. Next came the bag of iron ball bearings and the two handguns. Melanie fidgeted with the shotgun loaded with salt rounds, pretending to check the sighting as the almost silent footsteps drew nearer.

            When she gauged the walker had come close enough, she spun around, dark hair flying, the muzzle of the shotgun pointed steadily between the man’s eyes.

            The man halted, unperturbed by the weapon held against him. He smiled, sniffing the air delicately.

            “Salt doesn’t work on angels, you should know,” he said in a deep, calm voice with an Arabic accent to match his features.

            Melanie froze. An angel. Well, that was new. Rupert had hunted a few a while back, but she had never come across any herself. She had one of their weapons – an angelblade – just under the Trap, sheathed in what used to be a cover for Melanie’s long since abandoned recorder.

            “An angel, huh?” She lowered the shotgun but did not relax her defensive stance. “Congrats, you’re the first I’ve met.”

            The angel bowed dramatically, waving his hand in an elegant hello. “ _Tasharrafna_ , Melanie Harker.”

            She had no idea what that meant, but it sounded friendly enough. He didn’t seem to be attacking her, anyway. Not yet.

            “Nice to meet you too,” she ventured, straightening ever so slightly and inconspicuously leaning a hand on the lip of the car’s trunk, closer to the angelblade. “But you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

            The angel’s amiable smile widened as he chuckled. Melanie had never heard a sound like it. It literally sounded like a babbling brook, albeit lowered a few octaves. If honey had a sound, this would surely be it. Rich but sweet. Against her will, Melanie felt a bubble of warmth pop into existence in her chest. She doused it immediately: she would not grow attached to a creature she might be about to kill.

            “Forgive me, Miss Harker. My name,” he said, locking her with deep brown eyes that looked far older than the thirty-something vessel’s had any right to, “is Maalik.”

            “Maalik.” Melanie tested the foreign word on her tongue. She liked it. “And what brings you to this fine dilapidated part of town?” she asked, gesturing at the run-down houses and broken cars surrounding them.

            Maalik looked slowly around, smiling in amusement at the neglect he saw as though at some private joke.

            “I have come to offer you a bargain,” he said at last, his eyes returning to Melanie’s.

            The young hunter was instantly on her guard.

            “I don’t think so,” she said quickly, masking her fear with anger. “I don’t make deals with non-humans, sorry. I like my soul fine where it is, thanks.” Her hand slipped slowly down and grasped the velvety cloth that concealed the angelblade.

            Fury flashed in Maalik’s eyes so quickly Melanie wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.

            “You misunderstand me, girl. I am no _demon_.” He sneered the word as though repulsed by the very feel of it on his tongue. Well, they had that in common at least. “A deal with an angel is mutually beneficial. I do not require your soul. Only your assistance.”

            “All right, then, Maalik,” she said slowly, frowning slightly in confusion. “I’m listening.”

            Maalik clasped his hands behind his back and took a few leisurely steps forward. Melanie’s fist tightened on the hidden weapon.

            “You have been hunting the Winchester demon, have you not?”

            “Yes,” she replied, uncertain. “How do you know that?”

            He shot her a breezy smile. “Many of my kind have been tracking the demon. You have been noticed.” His tone implied she should take this as a high compliment. “My superior has decreed that the Winchester must die, and soon. He is, unfortunately, difficult to trace. You, as I understand it, are quite close to him. I propose that we join forces to capture him.”

            Melanie waited. “And?” she prompted, sure there was more.

            Maalik’s grin widened once more. “And then I shall allow you to accompany me as I interrogate the scum. I believe you’d enjoy that.”

            “And by ‘interrogate’ I’m guessing you mean –”

            “Torture,” he finished for her. “Yes.”

            Melanie kept her expression cool and blank, ignoring the flush of excitement and eagerness at the prospect of making Dean Winchester bleed.

            “And why do you think I’d enjoy that?” This angel knew far too much for her liking.

            “Why,” Maalik said, surprised, “as vengeance for what he did to poor Maximillion, of course. That is why you hunt him so diligently, is it not?”

            Melanie’s plucked brows tugged down in a frown. “How do you know about Max?” Her voice only wavered slightly when she said his name.

            “As I’ve said,” he explained, taking another step closer. “You have been noticed.”

            She stared up into the deep eyes that reminded her of melted chocolate. His teeth were white against the dark skin, and she had to admit, the vessel he’d chosen wasn’t exactly ugly.

            “And,” he continued unexpectedly, “I remember hearing your prayers for him. Back when you used to pray.”

            Mel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That was a long time ago.”

            “Indeed. I think it’s time they were answered, don’t you?”

            A smile wormed its way onto her lips. There was no doubting that having an angel on her side would drastically increase her chances of surviving this hunt. That was, she checked herself, if she could trust this angel. She’d learned long ago never to judge a person trustworthy just because they had a fine face. It was a lesson that had been drilled into her very core in a single night.

            “And when you’ve gotten all you want from Dean Winchester ... What then?”

            “Then we kill him.”

            Melanie scoffed. “You do know what we’re up against, don’t you? If there’s anything that can actually kill this mother, it’s his own weapon, the First Blade.”

            “Oh, I beg to differ,” he drawled, pulling an antique pistol from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

            Melanie stared. And stared. She’d heard about this weapon, Rupert had told her, but it couldn’t be. It had been lost – those Winchesters had lost it trying to kill Satan or something. And yet she recognised the pentagram carved into the grip. Its long thin snout matched the sketch Rupert had shown her. She could see the Latin words _non timebo mala_ etched along the barrel.

            “Is that ... the Colt?” she asked, breathless.

            Maalik nodded, holding the gun out to her. With trembling fingers, she took it.

            The gun that could kill anything. Well, except archangels, apparently. But still ... this could be the answer.

            “This could kill him,” she whispered with relish.

            “My superior and I believe it will. And if not,” he added jovially, “it will surely hurt him.”

            Melanie looked up, her eyes alight with excitement. “And if it doesn’t kill him, do you have a plan B?”

            Maalik nodded. “There is a cell prepared in Heaven, just for him. My master will be quite pleased to ... entertain himself with the Winchester demon, if we are unable to terminate him.”

            “And who is this master of yours?” Melanie asked casually.

            Maalik’s grin returned, wider than ever. “Why, the new god of course.”

            “New god? What happened to the old one?”

            “He abandoned us years ago.” Maalik waved a hand, dismissing his father’s importance.

            “Huh.” _Nice to know it wasn’t just me,_ she thought.

            “The new god will never leave us,” Maalik said, savouring each word. “He is the one who told me where to find the Colt. He was once only a mere angel but soon he will be so much more. He is the one who killed Dean Winchester and finalized his transformation. And now he is rectifying that mistake, as a good leader must. Even now, he awaits his chance to return to his rightful place in Heaven, with only us who truly love him by his side.” Maalik’s eyes had a fire in them that sent an exhilarating shiver up Melanie’s spine. “He will create a new world for angels and humans alike and we will rejoice,” he finished in a fervent whisper.

            Melanie couldn’t deny she liked the sound of that. She doubted it would be as neat and tidy as Maalik seemed to think – new world orders rarely were – but it would be nice to be on the winning side for once.

            “This new god,” she asked, her own lips quirking up in a smile to mirror Maalik’s. “Does he have a name?”

            Maalik nodded, beaming at her enthusiasm. “Oh, indeed. Heaven and Earth will rejoice with gladness in their hearts under the gentle hand of the mighty X.”

 

 


	20. The Lord Of Souls

            “You ready for this?”

            Dean’s lips pulled back in a wild smile, his teeth glinting slightly in the light from the stadium’s flood lamps.

            “Oh,” he cooed, his voice soft and deep. “You have no idea.”

            He looked to Lucius and saw his own keen excitement mirrored in both the Knight’s eyes, the pale blue human ones dwarfed by the black voids that shifted among the flames beneath the frail skin.

            “Take the third, fourth and sixth batches round to the left once we break in. Split them from the side and join me. Divide and conquer, baby.”

            Dean didn’t miss the surprised pride his words sparked in Lucius’s cold eyes.

            “As you wish, my Lord Dean,” he said with a slight bow, anticipation widening his grin. He whistled for his hellhound, who trotted obediently to his side. In one fluid motion, Lucius pulled himself onto the great dog’s shaggy back, adjusting himself into a comfortable position behind the beast’s broad shoulders. He pulled at its fur, directing it off to his waiting soldiers. With one last salute to Dean, he disappeared among the crowds of demons.

            They had gathered in Laramie, Wyoming, in the War Memorial Stadium. Dean thought it had a strange symmetry to it. The war to end all wars that started in a memorial. He was never one for poetry, but even he appreciated the tragic irony of this meeting place.

            It was just a few short miles away from the Devil’s Gate, but to Dean, that was just another small bonus. They wouldn’t be using a simple Gate. The energies imbibed in this stadium, on this land, were what he needed. The pain and grief of memories of those lost at war, the joy, excitement, and strength that had permeated every game held on this soft grass, were the reasons he had chosen this meeting place.

            For the last four hours, his demons had gathered. Dean, Michelle, and Lucius had arrived first, clearing out any human guards, having a bit of fun with them while they waited for their army. It was now two hours after the sun had set, and night had taken hold with a darkness so complete the sky looked like one giant demon’s eye. Thick clouds pressed down on the earth as though eager to join Dean’s ranks. Lightning flickered through them at irregular intervals, seeming to search for an escape from its ethereal prison.

            Every demon Dean had had created and recruited was now packed inside the stadium, standing quietly in their hundreds, waiting for his signal. The air between them was charged with bloodlust and the electric energy that precedes a fight.

            Dean reached up and patted his hellhound’s shoulder. His was, of course, the largest they could find. Her head was almost level with Dean’s, her pointed ears swivelling above, alert to every twitch. She had been Crowley’s, once. Now her loyalty was to Dean.

            Dean had been pleased to discover that his aversion to hellhounds, and dogs in general, had been lost along with his humanity. The sight of hellhounds, the deep tremor of their growls, had once terrified him, so much so he’d had to fight not to freeze with fear. Years of training and fighting nightmares had proved invaluable on the rare occasion that hellhounds prowled nearby.

            Now, though, the spectral-looking wolf-pitbull-demon mutants looked nothing short of magnificent. Their smoke-like fur swirling around them like an aura of poison mist was beautiful to behold. He now regarded their razor-sharp fangs and claws with the same affectionate respect he’d afforded his favourite knife when he was a hunter.

            But it was their eyes, in Dean’s opinion, that truly showed the majesty of the creature. Burning red ovals of malice that were far more indicative of the creature’s fierce, vicious ability than their formidable claws and teeth. Even their size and savage snarls could not strike the same note of mortal peril as those blazing, evil eyes.

            They were glorious.

            Hence his hellhound’s name, Gloria. Crowley’s choice, but Dean had kept it. It was too fitting to change.

            Gloria leant into his hand, enjoying the affection. Her tongue lolled happily out over her long fangs, waving in time with her every pant. Dean smiled.

            He turned at the sound of heavy pawsteps and saw Michelle trot over on her own hellhound, this one coming up to Dean’s shoulder. Another of Crowley’s pack – turned out the former king of Hell was the Cesar Millan of demonic pitbulls. And one heck of a breeder – the smallest of his hounds, Rudy, was the size of an Irish Wolfhound on steroids.

            Michelle dismounted gracefully, landing on the balls of her feet beside Dean. The hounds greeted each other with low growls and bared teeth. Hellhounds weren’t as social as their canine appearance might suggest, yet they worked well as a unit nonetheless.

            Dean’s eyes tracked every movement Michelle made as she stepped forward, tracing her curves greedily. She was the first Knight he’d made and he’d pretty much only chosen her because she was hot. And thanks to the immortal nature of Knights, she always would be.

            “Is it almost time?” she asked in her slightly rasping voice, a warm smile brightening her already lovely face. She bit her lower lip between rows of perfect white teeth, and Dean felt a rush of desire spike through him.

            “Almost,” he promised, pulling her to him by the hips. “Just,” he continued, kissing her lips gently. “Another.” He kissed her again. “Minute.”

            She wrapped her arms around his neck as he pulled her closer still. He never got tired of kissing her.

            When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Michelle looked around at the hundreds of gathered demons waiting in the night.

            “I can’t believe it’s finally time,” she whispered.

            Dean snorted. “You make it sound as though we’ve been waiting years.”

            She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe I have.”

            He laughed. She had taken to demonhood almost as well as he had. Not exactly a Mozart, but she had proven her skill in a matter of days. She was his right-hand demon. Only Lucius rivalled her talent and imagination. Both had been valuable investments.

            Dean stiffened, holding his breath.

            “Do you feel it?” he whispered, his eyes darting around the stadium, the corner of his mouth twisting in a devilish grin.

            “Feel what?”

            The Blade was whispering to him from its sheath on his thigh. The lines were ready. The energies had formed.

            Its soundless voice sent shivers of delight and anticipation up his spine and he felt his heart quicken.

            “It’s time,” he breathed.

            Glancing down at her with a manic glint in his green eyes, he grabbed a fistful of Gloria’s fur and pulled himself up onto her broad back. Michelle copied him, swinging herself effortlessly onto her hellhound.

            Dean kicked Gloria’s sides and the spectral hound trotted forwards. Michelle and Lucius followed, each several yards from Dean, flanking him. Each mounted demon was followed by a battalion of foot soldiers, each uttering excited whoops and yells, all restraining themselves from running with difficulty.

            There were still twenty or so yards of field left when Dean felt the subtle shudder ripple up from the First Blade. It was reacting to the surge of power the marching demons created, telling Dean it was ready.

            Savouring every second, Dean let go of Gloria’s thick fur with his right hand. He kicked her again and she broke into a fast, loping run. Behind him, the demons surged forward with exuberant war cries, led by the three galloping hellhounds. He reached back and gripped the familiar hilt, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl of delight as the power he always felt pounded into him like a waterfall. When he held the Blade, he and it were one. Their power joined and intensified, coalescing into a tangible heat inside his chest.

            The Blade vibrated slightly a second before Dean and Gloria hit the touchdown line, and Dean knew that with the added energies of so many demons running in fevered bloodlust, the spell was complete.

            He raised the Blade up before him, urging his army onwards. With a primal roar of “CHARGE!” he and Gloria leaped over the chalked line, right between the goalposts.

            Soft, lush grass was replaced by black rock and embers. The cool air of the Wyoming night mutated into an atmosphere thick with fear and screams and heat. The empty chairs that Dean had been feet from crashing into were replaced by a vast fiery chasm.

            The transition from Earth to Hell was so smooth, the nearest demons in the sweltering underworld heard Dean’s bellowed command.

            They were cut down before they could rise from their racks.

            The Lord of Soul’s army thundered into Hell like a rockslide clatters downhill. First there were two, five, no – twenty. Then, led by two more massive hellhounds, over two hundred demons burst into the Fourth Kingdom.

            They swept through Hell like a high wind over long grass. They had surprise on their side and they exploited the confusion it caused. War sprang into existence in a heartbeat, and suddenly the inhabitants of the underworld were fighting for their very lives.

            Hell is like Heaven in many ways. In Heaven, each soul generates its own paradise, and the angels, in theory, protect them.

            In Hell, each soul is handed to a demon. This demon can see through the soul like a human sees through stained glass. Every fear, every scar, every speck of old pain and doubt then becomes the demon’s weapon. Just as in Heaven, so it is in Hell. The soul creates its perfect torment. The demon sees it done, and like a gardener the demon plucks and prunes and plants new ideas of torture. Some souls fear physical mutilation. Some are horrified by hurting others. Some dread the fates their family or friends suffered in life without them. Some live in terror of their own worst nightmares and darkest thoughts becoming reality.

            In Hell, reality is the demon’s greatest tool.

            Dean remembered Alistair’s artful skill of inflicting torture as he rode through tens of hells a second, slaughtering every smoking black-eyed demon he found. He had been a master, feared even by other demons for his talent in manipulating perceptions and his unrivalled expertise at carving a soul without destroying it, freeing it from the humanity that shackled it.

            Dean had learnt much from his time as Alistair’s apprentice. He had put that tutelage to good use in the recent months and had even found new and faster ways to turn a soul to smoky blackness.

            Those skills were surprisingly adaptable to open warfare.

            Demons were not easy entities to kill, and although Dean had the unbeatable First Blade, his soldiers did not. Instead, they ran into every hell, to every level, led by their mounted lieutenants. Both Lucius and Michelle had angelblades the ever-generous Dean had given them, and they would even now be surrounding the most powerful and ancient demons left in Hell. Dean had instructed them to find every demon with white eyes and bring them to him.

            Lucius and his battalion peeled off to the left, attacking the unofficial demon training grounds. Michelle took her company right with an exhilarated yell, storming the areas in which rogue demons were ‘disciplined’.

            Dean himself led his garrison through the main field of torture. It was known as the Factory, and it was where Dean had spent forty years on and around the indescribable soul-racks. Those memories had been saturated in shame and fear as a human, but now Dean saw only lessons and strategies and weak points.

            For instance, the Factory was not guarded, which made it easy for Dean and his army to slide into it from the cold Earth above. It was where every soul was turned, and so there were already hundreds of young, impressionable demons and demons-to-be that would be eager to join his ranks, witnessing the might of his advance through their midst.

            Squads of demons hand-picked by Dean rushed to take control of the racks as he swept through the Factory like darkness itself, on to what Crowley had dubbed the ‘administration’ of Hell.

            This was where the oldest demons lurked, when they weren’t amusing themselves tearing souls and lesser demons apart. It was where Crowley had taken his crown and, for a few short years, had ruled Hell. The chaos and screaming of the Factory was replaced with the comparatively eerie quiet of a grand, luxurious foyer with a long, wide reception desk dominating the farthest section. Gloria loped between the ornate marble columns, her claws clacking against the hard stone floor. At Dean’s unspoken command, she slid to a halt, stopping right in front of the receptionist.

            Dean leant forward over Gloria’s shoulder as she growled, his smile mirroring the hound’s vicious grimace. His demons poured around the grand desk like a river around a rock, infiltrating every level of administration and seizing all demons they found. Another perk of manufacturing your own army, Dean reflected, was that they didn’t know enough to fear the demons of Hell. The only demon they feared was him.

            Which was exactly the way he liked it.

            He fixed the receptionist with a black-eyed glare and spoke with a voice in harmony with Gloria’s unbroken snarl.

            “Call the boss, kid. Tell him Dean Winchester’s buying him lunch in the Factory.”

            The receptionist swallowed involuntarily, clearly deciding if his loyalty to his employer was worth the wrath of this stranger with a swirling black soul.

            Wisely, he chose to press the intercom.

            “All employees report to the Factory, all employees to the Factory at once.”

            The demon looked up at Dean with a very uncertain smile.

            “What’s your name?” Dean asked, his tone suddenly casual and friendly.

            “Judas, sir,” the receptionist replied, relaxing slightly at the non-lethal turn the encounter had taken.

            Dean winked. “Thanks, Judas.” He reached forward over the mahogany counter and drew the First Blade through the air in a perfectly horizontal line through Judas’s head. He was dead before he could cry out, flashing a deep orange as his existence was terminated.

            Straightening on Gloria’s back, he jerked his hand, tugging her fur to the left. With the soft scraping of claws on stone, she trotted obediently back to the Factory.

            The attack had been quick and efficient, exactly how Dean had planned. Hell’s demons were packed between the soul-racks, enclosed in a ring of Dean’s soldiers. The rest of his hellhounds had arrived and they prowled the edges of the great cavern, snarling and snapping their warnings to those bold enough to fight back.

            Dean rode calmly into their midst. He dismounted and leaped lightly onto a nearby soul-rack. The soul in question, newly arrived and still shining with a brilliant white-blue light, was screaming hysterically, writhing in its bonds. Dean looked down at it and saw the hell it was experiencing. Solitude was its torment. It believed it was alone in this afterlife, tide down and unable to move by some unknown force that had abandoned it for eternity. Its whimpering sobs were pathetic. Without breaking eye contact with the blind and deaf soul, he sank smoothly to his knees and brought the First Blade down into the exact centre of the being. It jerked and twitched, a great screech ripping through the Factory, echoing in the silent chasm as the gathered demons hushed at the noise. None of them had ever heard a soul make a sound like that.

            Dean twisted the Blade ninety degrees to the right and the soul’s shriek was cut short as it was drawn into the old bone. It was pulled in like a star into a black hole, as though a thousand tiny hooks had been secured into the bright entity and it was dragged slowly into the First Blade. The Mark of Cain burned dully under Dean’s black sleeve. Once the last speck of its energy had entered the Blade, Dean felt the silent concussion, the soundless boom of power ricocheting up his arm to his chest. The force of it used to knock him flat on his back, but now he absorbed the strength with only a slight shiver. He felt the ever-present heat in his chest intensify as the soul settled inside him. By the time he stood up, Blade still in hand, his blood sang through him like a wild river of molten lava.

            It felt glorious.

            The Lord of Souls turned his head to the creatures of black smoke and flame gathered beneath him. Most gazed at him with confusion and wary fear. The few with milky white eyes either felt no such apprehension at the Winchester’s arrival, or were wise enough to mask their trepidation. Those who recognised his body glared in open hatred.

            Dean peered into every pair of inhuman eyes turned towards him, daring any of them to move. He paced slowly up and down the long, empty rack, commanding the attention of all. He did not smile. He allowed his fury and blinding will pour out of his green eyes into every twisted soul before him, paralyzing them with his very presence. When the tension became palpable, he began.

            “My name is Dean Winchester,” he called into the waiting silence. “You know who I was. I broke the first seal. I started the apocalypse.

            “My brother and I stopped it.

            “I have killed more demons than any other hunter alive.” He stopped in the middle of the rack and barked, “I am your nightmares.”

            He scanned the crowd, letting his words sink in before resuming his measured pacing.

            “But you already knew all that. I’m famous.” He flashed the crowd a winning smile, winking. “I’m here to tell you what you don’t know.”

            He pulled his right sleeve up, exposing the softly glowing Mark of Cain and held the First Blade aloft in his fist, high enough for all to see its jagged profile.

            “This,” he announced, “is the First Blade. The weapon Cain used to murder his brother, Abel. The first murder. Cain used it to kill the Knights of Hell he’d created. I killed the last Knight. Abaddon.”

            A murmur ran through the crowd like a ripple. Some demons inched forward, struggling to contain their obvious anger at the murderer of their gallant leader.

            The hellhounds’ gut-wrenching growls halted any attacks.

            Dean smiled. Time for the second shock. Another perk of being a demon in your original meat suit was that few demons, if any, could see your true form even through their black eyes. The smoky, blackened soul fit so snuggly into the suit that it was like trying to see past your own reflection in a mirror. It was the perfect mask.

            That coupled with Dean’s old Hell-taught skill of manipulating realities meant that only his demons knew he wasn’t human.

            “Oh, and ...” He allowed his eyes to fall to blackness, showing every gathered demon what he was. “I’m a demon.”

            The uneasy silence crackled with surprised exclamations, roars of indignant fury, and even a few whoops.

            Dean raised the Blade once more with a glare every bit as sharp as the old jawbone. When silence returned, he continued.

            “But not just any demon. Oh no. I’m a whole new breed. There’s only one other thing like me in this whole God forsaken universe, and that’s Cain.” He paused to lock eyes with the crowd, stalking along the rack.

            “But see, I got something Cain never had.

            “I was a hunter.

            “See, Cain, he learned how to be a demon long after he became one. Hell, he only became one to save his brother. Me, on the other hand ... I’ve spent my life knowing how to be a demon. I came this close” – he held up a finger and thumb almost touching – “to becoming one down here a few years ago. I’ve hunted demons. Killed dozens of ’em. Azazel, Abaddon, Ruby ... My point is, I know how you mooks think. Death and destruction. Messing with people.”

            When he reached the end of the rack, he leaped lightly onto the next one. Ambling along the blood-stained surface, his thick boots crunching slightly on the waiting shackles and squelching almost inaudibly as he strode confidently through the captive souls. He stopped at each one and knelt. Without breaking the rhythm of his speech, he stabbed them one by one with the First Blade, absorbing every speck.

            “And that’s all well and good. I mean, don’t get me wrong.” He held a hand up to the crowd as though begging their indulgence. “You guys caused me and my brother a lot of trouble. But see, that’s what makes me special. That’s what makes me ten times worse than ol’ daddy Cain.”

            He stopped again and faced the crowd, his feet apart and the Blade clutched in his fist by his side.

            “I wasn’t just a hunter. I’m not just some demon.

            “I am a Winchester.”

            He let the words hang in the air, pressing down on all the gathered demons. His piercing black eyes struck each one they passed over, causing some of the more cowardly demons to wince away from his gaze.

            “I am a Winchester,” he repeated, his voice strong and steady. “I’ve stopped the end of the world more times than I care to count. From Lucifer. From Leviathans. You name it.”

            He resumed his solitary stroll along the racks, his lips quirking in a cocky smile.

            “I’ve met two gods, a prophet of the Lord, more angels and demons than I wanna remember. I have held the Word of God. All three of them, actually. And I know what’s written on them. I know how to kill pretty much every evil thing there is. I’ve ganked the mother of all monsters and I shot the Devil himself right in the face.” He mimed shooting an imaginary forehead with his fingers. “It didn’t work in the end, but hey, it’s the thought and the point blank range that matters, right?” He laughed merrily at his own wit.

            “But I know what you’re thinking. What’s so special about the Winchesters? I mean, beside all the skill and the great taste in music and the impeccable abs. Well, for one, we never give up. My dad was down here for a century or so. He never turned. My brother was in the Pit with Lucifer and Michael for over a year. I got him out. Death himself said Sam’d probably die from the memories alone, but he didn’t.

            “We don’t give up. And we don’t die. In fact, I’m immortal now so you all better get used to this handsome face.

            “But the most important Winchester trait you need to know right now,” he continued, placing a foot carefully on a cringing soul’s arm as he crouched beside it, “is the knowledge we were born into.” He plunged the Blade into the heart of the soul and twisted it, absorbing another burning ball of energy.

            “You see, my brother and I were more than just apocalypse-ending hunters. See that’s just our mom’s side of the family. Our dad’s, well. That’s another story. The Men of Letters. Sam and I are legacies, ‘beholders to all that which man does not understand’,” he quoted. “So apart from knowing the Word of God, the secrets of Heaven, everything Crowley told me – quite the snitch that guy, really – and everything old Alistair taught me, we have full and exclusive access to the Men of Letters’ archives. We know ... everything.

            “ _I_ know everything.

            “The spell I used to get here, for example. That’s about, oh, three centuries old? I forget. And you saw how powerful. I brought over four hundred demons – including two brand new Knights of Hell and yours truly, plus a few hellhounds, from one realm into another. Crossing kingdoms like you’d cross a threshold. And do I look tired to you?” he challenged, spreading his arms wide so they could all get a good look at his physique.

            Some of the demons huddled between the racks were getting more and more restless. It was an affront, Dean knew, to attack Hell. According to Crowley there were secret rules of etiquette about the place. Have all the fun and entrails you want, spend all your time boxing with the fam’, but if an outsider comes into your turf, you don’t stand for that. That said, Dean wasn’t exactly the outsider they had thought he was. He was a demon, after all. And not just that, but a demon with the Mark and Blade of Cain himself.

            “I have never felt more alive.” He lowered his arms slowly, shifting his weight as he walked on.

            “So to recap: I was a hunter. I am a demon of Cain. The Son of Cain, some call me. Lord of Souls also works. I’m a Winchester, and I know everything you and your granddaddy demons can do.

            “I also know how to shut the Gates of Hell. Permanently.” He glanced sideways at the crowd as fearful murmuring sparked among them. He smiled and looked back to the rack below him. “But don’t worry. Who’d want Hell sealed off for eternity?” He grimaced, shuddering visibly at the thought. “Nasty idea, that. No, I don’t want to close the Gates of Hell,” he drawled on. “I want to expand Hell’s dominion.”

            Fearful mutters were replaced by the soundless flicker of hundreds of ears pricking up.

            Dean’s lips curled upward briefly. He had them now.

            “Hell gets a bad rep. I mean, yeah, it’s full of pain and fear and even for you demons still working on the merit badges, it’s almost as bad as it is for these guys.” He nudged a whimpering soul with the toe of his boot before gently sinking the Blade into its centre and twisting. “I know there’s this ages old tradition and hierarchy to the place, but c’mon! Shouldn’t Hell be a paradise for every demon?” he roared. He waited for cheering but was met only with an expectant silence. He shrugged and continued.

            “But see, the reason that can’t be is ‘cause Hell is too goddamn small, don’tcha think? I mean, when was the last time this place got renovated! D’you even know how big Heaven is?” Silence. “Neither do I, but I’m guessing it’s a hell of a lot bigger than Hell.

            “So, that brings me to the reason for my little visit today. Or tonight, I don’t really get the whole Earth-Hell time difference thing.” He shook his head and got back to his point. “I think it’s time Hell was upsized.”

Still no cheering. Jeez, tough crowd.

            “As you may have noticed, I didn’t exactly come alone.” He gestured grandly to the rows of demons standing sentinel over the crowd. “Where, you may ask, did I find these fine recruits? Well, anywhere I wanted! I made ‘em. Every single one.

            “And we’ve come here today to share our dream with you. A dream of a universe owned by demons. Heaven – demons’. Hell – demons’. Earth – demons’. Purgatory – well the vamps need to go somewhere when they snuff it.

            “I say the angels have had long enough ‘guarding’ all those souls behind the Pearly Gates. Living off all that stolen power while our kind lives off scraps! A deal here, a mad choice there, it’s nothing – nothing! – compared to what they’ve got up in Heaven. I’ve been there. Even as a human I could sense the power of all those souls. Millions of dead people over millennia. Not mentioning the Veil, which is crammed with every Tom, Dick and Harry who’s died over the past two years. Can you imagine how many souls that is? Billions? Trillions?

            “And we can take it.”

            Many of the demons exchanged glances, some of them accompanied by widening, malicious grins.

            “Heaven is on lockdown. The angels can’t even get in or out except for one tiny portal. Most of them are wingless now anyway. I say they’ve had their turn on the puffy clouds. I say it’s time demonkind got a chance to spread out a little. I say it’s time that Heaven became Hell!”

            Now, finally, they cheered. Most of the demons raised their guttural inhuman voices in cries of agreement, roaring their approval.

            Dean leant his head back slightly and closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet sound of dominance.

            “But of course, if we’re to take on such a task, we’re gonna need one hell of an army.” His white teeth flashed as he shot them all a dazzling smile. “That’s where you come in. I know how to take Heaven. But I’m gonna need a force as loyal as my Knights.”

            Michelle and Lucius inclined their heads at this, both wearing matching small, prideful smiles.

            He had stopped his pacing once again, strategically positioned on the most secluded soul-rack. Every demon of Hell was packed in before him, all attention focused raptly on his face. He suppressed a gleeful smirk. He had them now. He could feel it building in his chest, so strong now it hurt like broken ribs and overused lungs. The Blade was vibrating so much his hand was shaking.

            “They say that true loyalty is won,” he said, casually gripping the Blade’s hilt with his other hand. “I disagree. I think it’s far easier” – he brought the Blade slowly up to his chest, the point facing directly up – “to manufacture. Which means ...”

            He closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he focused the energies pounding through him onto the Blade. Its power helped him control the thrumming souls he’d absorbed, the Mark of Cain glowing like a hot coal on his forearm.

            The point of the First Blade lowered to face the crowd of demons.

            They flinched away from the legendary weapon, but held their ground. Dean heard their quickened breathing and knew they hadn’t scarpered. He smiled.

            He had them now.

            Dean Winchester, the Lord of Souls, opened his jet black eyes and unleashed his power.

            Lightning as bright and white as the purest of souls thundered out from the tip of the First Blade, leaping like a great gleaming creature into the crowd of demons. Scores of them died before they had a chance to scream. They were reduced to an ash so fine it was invisible within seconds. The dazzling tentacles were so painfully bright they seemed to suck all light from Hell.

            Dean moved the Blade, his arms straining against the sheer force of the lightning of souls that was as bright and pure as his eyes were black. Streaks of brilliant, dazzling white leaping from demon to demon reflected in his still, emotionless black eyes. His smile grew as he heard their terrified shrieks. A symphony of fear accompanied by the sprinkling harmony of the hellhounds’ frightened yelps.

            His aim was careful and true. He didn’t hit a single soldier of his, and he didn’t miss a single demon of Hell. The lightning shocked through every one, leaving only dust behind. They were utterly defenceless. Even the most ancient and powerful of demons were reduced to cinders. They sizzled and popped out of existence as the fierce energy cackled through them faster than the eye could follow. It spiked out in shimmering tendrils from the silhouette of the Lord of Souls standing silently on the rack.

            When the last demon of Hell had exploded in a comical puff of dark black particles, Dean lowered the Blade. The lightning stuttered out of existence and light return to the underworld at last.

            The chaos had lasted less than a minute but the result was devastating. Every single demon that had resided in Hell was gone. The only living creatures left were those controlled by the Lord of Souls.

            The army stood frozen in shock, staring at the aftermath of the devastating display of power they had just witnessed. They exchanged incredulous looks, but did not dare break the complete silence the crackling lightning had left. Michelle and Lucius glanced at each other, their faces alight, not with fear, but with admiration and a fierce, exultant pride in their leader’s unparalleled power.

            “... I don’t need you,” he said evenly to the silent Factory.

            He looked around at his astounded followers. He smiled benevolently down upon them.

            “I told you, didn’t I, that we would have our paradise? Well, that paradise is a members-only deal. You are my army. My subjects. And together, we will create a new Hell all our own.”

            Slowly, just a few at first, the demons began to chant. Then, with growing momentum, Hell was filled with the pounding rhythm of hundreds of voices raised in unison:

            _“Lord of Souls! Lord of Souls! Lord of Souls!”_

            All that remained of the demons of Hell was a slight dusting of blackest ash and the sharp, metallic scent of salt.


	21. Status Report

            Fear had spread through Heaven like a poisonous weed. Every angel felt it gnawing silently on their nerves, slowly consuming them. Every angel, even the most seasoned of warriors, could not completely hide their jumpy, paranoid behaviour. Every one of them was terrified they would be next.

            Every angel except one.

            Metatron’s act had not wavered for one second of the last three months. Amitiel had interrogated him for three weeks without interruption, and yet he still clung to the false image of a penitent fool. His screams had clambered through the prison walls, broken only by his shouted answers to Amitiel’s repeated questions, but he had not changed.

            The angels had stopped believing that he was the cause of their terror.

            Castiel knew he was.

            Every angel, Castiel included, struggled (and usually failed) to hide the fear lurking deep in their eyes. During one of his many visits to the angelic dungeon, Castiel had looked into Metatron’s duplicitous eyes, trying to find the chink in his seemingly impenetrable armour. He never saw even the tiniest glimmer of fear.

            There was only one reason why he would not be afraid. He knew that whatever was hunting the angels of Heaven and Earth could not – or would not – attack him.

            Castiel did not believe for a second that whoever had killed ten angels, and who was presumably responsible for the disappearance of thirty more, was incapable of murdering a prisoner. All it would take was one cut, one touch. He was convinced they were working for the old scribe.

            But he could not prove it.

            “Castiel?”

            He jerked sharply out of his stupor and looked wildly around for the speaker, his angelblade flicking to his hand reflexively.

            Hannah jumped back slightly, her hands raised in a gesture of peace.

            “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I thought you heard me come in. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

            Cas closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his breathing to slow. “No, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I was just thinking ... It’s – never mind.”

            He slid the weapon back into his coat and gestured for Hannah to sit down in the chair opposite him.

            He was, as usual, in Metatron’s old office. He found it was the only place in Heaven wherein he could think straight. Apart from investigating the increasing number of crime scenes and visiting Metatron, he never left the dark study.

            Hannah sank into the armchair set at an angle beside the contentedly crackling fire.

            Cas had gotten tired of staring at the grey, empty hole in the wall. He had taken to lighting it whenever he was in the room. His thoughts were so dark these days it did him good to stare into the shifting light and feel the gentle warmth on his face.

            “Has there been another?” Cas asked, dreading the answer.

            “Two. Fiachra and Vincent have disappeared. No trace, just like the others. They missed their check in.” Hannah’s voice was as low and as heavy as Castiel’s heart. He looked up and saw the determined calm in her eyes. She was handling the crisis far better than he was.

            Cas sighed, the breath heaving through his borrowed lungs and _whoosh_ ing out of his borrowed nostrils, leaving him feeling emptier than he had before. Forty-one lost angels. And he was no closer to finding and stopping the culprit than he had been three months ago.

            His eyes moved to the flames, dancing merrily in flickering waves from the charring logs. The wood was almost completely black now, save the glittering red-hot embers that oozed a bright red glow. The flames seemed weightless in comparison, tied to their ember seeds yet reaching ever higher into the chimney. Such beauty from such devastation. A juxtaposition that seemed to run through the universe like an intricately woven thread in a tapestry.

            “Castiel?” Hannah spoke softly, as though reluctant to pull him from his thoughts. He dragged his gaze from the fire and settled it on her bright blue eyes.

            He smiled at her – or rather, he did his best approximation of a smile. “Yes, Hannah?”

            “Fiachra and Vincent aren’t why I’m here,” she said slowly, taking the empty seat opposite him.

            “Then why are you here?”

            Her eyes darted around the room before reluctantly settling back on his. “You’re – there’s trouble.”

            Cas snorted. “Thanks, Hannah, but I noticed that myself –”

            “No, new trouble. You’re in trouble.”

            His eyebrows rose as his heart sank. “Oh?”

            Hannah suddenly seemed fascinated by her fingers, fidgeting in her lap. “A lot of the angels – most of them, in fact – they don’t think you’re – they’re scared, Cas, you know they are, and well, maybe it helps them to blame someone – but it shouldn’t be you, I know it shouldn’t, you’ve done so much for us these last months and I know it’s not your –”

            “Hannah,” Cas cut across her, leaning forward and laying a gentle hand on her wrist. “What are you saying?”

            She looked up at him with tortured eyes. “The angels are blaming you for all the disappearances. They think it’s your fault.”

            “But why?”

            “I don’t know – I don’t understand it. You’ve done so much for us – almost all the angels are home, but they’re just not thinking clearly and –”

            “Hannah. Breathe.”

            She nodded quickly, taking a deep breath and smiling ever so slightly.

            “They think ... they think you spent too long investigating Metatron. They don’t believe he was ever responsible for the murders and that you were trying to, I don’t know, shift the focus from you or something. And ... they have all heard what the Winchester demon” – Cas flinched – “has been doing. They seem to think you’re ... working with him. Trying to take over Heaven and Hell.”

            Cas bowed his head and squeezed Hannah’s wrist.

            “And do you believe that too?” he asked, not looking at her.

            Her free hand found his chin and turned his head up to meet her suddenly fierce gaze.

            “No,” she said firmly, her brows furrowed. “I don’t believe it for a second, Castiel. I believe in you.”

            To his surprise, his lips widened in the first genuine smile he could remember in months. He pulled her head closer and kissed her forehead, trying to convey his gratitude with the touch.

            “Thank you,” he whispered as he released her.

            “You don’t have to thank me, Castiel,” she replied. She was smiling too, now, and the fear that was always hiding in her eyes seemed further away.

            Cas’s smile drained from his face as he sank back in the chair, thudding against the cushioned back. “Do you know what they’re going to do?”

            “The angels? Well ... They ... They want to elect a new leader I think.”

            “Let me guess,” Cas groaned. “Metatron.”

            Hannah looked surprised. “No. Egrid.”

            “Huh.” He supposed that made sense. She was a powerful angel, a good leader. Cas didn’t trust her.

            “So they’re not planning on doing a Barbossa on me then?” he asked half-jokingly.

            Hannah blinked in confusion. “Do a what?”

            “It’s a reference to a popular film in which, ah, a first mate commits mutiny on his captain after learning the location of the treasure they seek. They’re pirates.”

            “Oh.”

            Cas was beginning to understand how he must have seemed to Sam and Dean when they tried to explain these references. The look of polite confusion on Hannah’s face was both comical and exasperating.

            “So, are they planning to overthrow me? Kick me out of office?” He gestured to the grand, gloomy room, a humourless half-smile winking across his lips.

            “I’m sorry. I don’t know. They won’t tell me much. They know I’ll choose you over them. But I don’t think so.”

            Cas glanced at her. “Thank you for that.”

            She nodded once. “What are you going to do?”

            He thought for a moment, staring once again into the fire.

            “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I suppose if I can somehow stop the abductions or killings, or whatever is happening soon, they might ...” His voice trailed off. They wouldn’t change their minds. They were afraid and blaming someone gave them comfort. He’d seen it – well, Metatron had seen it – over and over again in countless stories. One man cannot change the minds of an angry, frightened crowd.

            “Maybe I should leave,” he wondered aloud.

            “But you can’t!”

            “Why not? What good am I doing here? Angels are dying, demons are booming, the Veil is bursting, and the human population is as scared as they haven’t been since the days of the almost apocalypse. Even the Reapers are disappearing – did you ever find Achmed or the others?”

            “No. He’s vanished, in hiding. If he’s still alive ...”

            “Exactly. Death is everywhere and what use am I against it?” His temper and his voice were rising now and suddenly he was on his feet without remembering deciding to get up. “I can’t protect the angels, nothing is helping! No spells, no hexbags, nothing. I know Metatron is behind this, he _has_ to be, but I can’t _prove_ it, and I can’t just kill him!” He was shouting now. Hannah sat quietly in the armchair, listening to his rant without interruption.

            “I can’t save anyone!” he roared, his voice breaking. Suddenly his energy seemed sucked out of him and he wilted where he stood. Sinking slowly to his knees in the middle of the office, he was too tired to conceal the fear in his voice as he whispered.

            “And I’m going to die.”

            He knelt there, staring at the ugly carpet with wide eyes. An aching hollowness filled him. He did not want to die.

            Hannah slid off the chair and sat beside him, putting a hand on his slumped shoulder. She didn’t know what to say, and Cas was glad she chose to stay silent.

            “I know it’ll be soon. A few weeks at most. Hannah.” He looked up at her with eyes overflowing with sorrow. “I don’t want to die. Not now, not when everything I love is dying. I can’t leave like this. I-I have to fix it but there’s no time –”

            His voice was cut off by an odd sort of hiccough and suddenly his head was cradled against Hannah’s chest, her arms wrapped tightly around his head and shoulders.

            He felt pathetic, slouched on the ground in the arms of another angel, but he could not bring himself to pull away. He ached inside, an ache that had nothing to do with the Grace that was killing him. He missed Sam. He missed Dean. He wished, more fiercely than he had ever wished for anything before, that he could just fly down to their motel room and let them tell him that they would always be there for him, fighting in his corner.

            But wishes never came true.

            They weren’t in some motel room, working a case.

            And there was no one left to pray to.

            Hannah held him in silence until the flames had burned themselves out in the fireplace. When at last he pulled himself free of her gentle embrace, the embers were glowing like minuscule eyes in the darkness of the blackened logs.

            Cas looked up at the angel he had found among a dozen dead siblings. She was looking at him with more compassion than he could remember seeing in another angel’s eyes. Perhaps it was because she had never been a soldier. The garrison had always been so mission-oriented they were often callous to each other’s suffering. Hannah was different. She cared about him. Or maybe she had simply spent too much time with him, the ex-angel who was tainted with humanity.

            “Thank you, Hannah,” he said quietly, his voice slightly husky from unshed tears. “It’s ... it’s nice to have a friend again.”

            She smiled at him. “It’s nice to be a friend. And I am honoured to be counted as yours, Castiel.”

            Abashed, Cas looked down uncomfortably as he got to his feet. He held a hand out for Hannah, and she took it.

            “Have you spoken to Sam Winchester since he told us of his brother’s plans?”

            Cas shook his head. “No. We, ah, we had another argument. Same one, really. He doesn’t appreciate my sending angel assassins after his brother.”

            “Well ... maybe it’s time you spoke to him again. After all, you’re his guardian angel, aren’t you?” She smiled. “I bet he needs you as much as you need him right now. Maybe more.”

            Cas nodded. If he was lonely, he didn’t want to imagine how Sam felt. At least he had Hannah. He had someone. Who did Sam have now? He should have him, Cas, his guardian angel. But pride and grief had driven a wedge between them. But then, ego and a god complex had driven a wedge between them and they had still been friends. Hell, Cas had unleashed the unrestrained might of Lucifer into Sam’s mind, his most intimate space and his last sanctuary. Sam had forgiven him that atrocity.

            Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe it was time to just agree to disagree and help each other. The two musketeers.

            Besides, Castiel didn’t particularly want to die alone.


	22. Bait

            There wasn’t anything particularly special about this bar. Its drinks were expensive, its food was suspiciously greasy (even the salad), and the ambiance was hardly the backdrop for a grand story of romance or intrigue.

            It was the only bar in the small town and proudly boasted its singular atmosphere and unbeatable prices. The fact that there was no one else in town to contest their prices hadn’t seemed to occur to them.

            The bar’s counter was the usual long wooden structure acting as a barrier between the more frequent customers and the glass shelves lined with a surprisingly wide selection of beverages. Monotonous, flickering neon signs advertised the more popular brands of beer, and for those who preferred the smoother taste of wine, a sign behind the cash register proudly proclaimed that the bar carried both red and white. Were an aficionado of the grape to ask what wines were included in their ‘vast’ collection, they would be met with a blank stare and a wholeheartedly serious reply of, “Well, see, we’ve got red and we’ve got white.” Any further discussion of the wine list would inevitably end in the defeated customer ordering a pint of lager simply to end a conversation they found personally offensive.

            The most interesting thing in the bar – unless you counted the framed photographs along the walls that showed the progression of the local high school’s football team, seemingly since the sport was invented, which, shockingly, most people didn’t – was the open-mic karaoke nights every weekday.

            The stage that afforded the singer the illusion of fame was less than two feet high and was accessible by a stepladder (when the bartender remembered to put it out). The sound system left much to be desired, but they compensated by projecting the singer’s performance onto the wall behind them with a projector whose glitchiness was matched only by the ATM machine in the far corner. The mounted televisions (which were by far the most modern things in the bar) displayed the lyrics of the song being sung, unless of course, there was a game on. Which there usually was.

            Regardless of its many faults, and its beer-and-grease smell, Jeb’s Bar was a nice enough place to while away the hours between work and bed for all those in town who didn’t have children (and for several who did).

            Melanie just couldn’t quite figure out why the most powerful and feared demon in existence chose this bar, of all bars, to visit.

            She hadn’t been so nervous since the day of her SATs. But while the fear associated with those now-meaningless exams was unfounded, there was a very real chance she would not survive the next twenty-four hours. In fact, she might not survive the next four hours.

            That knowledge didn’t scare her in the way she thought it would. She was nervous, yes, but that only seemed to fuel her fierce excitement. She might die before her next birthday. This could well be her last Thursday on Earth. Her heart rate was slightly more rapid than usual, but for all intents and purposes, she simply did not care.

            As long as she took him with her.

            She was sitting alone at one of the small round tables near the stage, slowly nursing a virgin cocktail. There were three empty glasses adorning the whirling wooden table top, and her posture suggested that she was intoxicated. Which was, of course, the point.

            Taking another pull through the coloured straw, the chilled fruity liquid clinging pleasantly to her tongue, she looked around the bar once more. It was half full of men and a few women, most of whom seemed to be engaged in some kind of silent contest as to who could wear the shortest dress and still be considered fully clothed.

            There were more younger people in the bar than she had thought there would be. But then, she reasoned, in a town this size, the only other place for the young to hang out in the evenings was the bowling alley two blocks away. And considering it didn’t sell alcohol, it had probably been claimed by the high school students.

            It had been over two hours since Melanie had first arrived and ordered her first virgin Sex on the Beach, carefully disguised as the real thing despite the fact that there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in it. She couldn’t afford to cloud her mind tonight.

            How Maalik knew Dean Winchester would be in this bar on this night remained a mystery to her. She had asked him several times to explain but he had always just smiled and told her to believe in him and his god. Apparently this X character had access to the demon’s schedule or something.

            It wasn’t suspicious at all.

            Despite her nagging doubts and scepticism, she had come to trust the angel over the past few months. They had worked so closely together for so long, researching and scheming every facet of their plan until it was perfect. They had finally agreed they were ready exactly one week ago. That was when Maalik had returned to the motel with the news that his prayers to X had been answered, and he knew where the Winchester demon would be, and when.

            All there was left to do now was execute the plan, and then the demon.

            Which was why Melanie had spent two hours preparing and optimising one of her greatest weapons: her body.

            Dean Winchester was not one to deny himself the pleasures of female company, so Melanie had become the most enticing bait in the bar.

            She wore a dress Maalik had produced almost from thin air one evening that must have cost over a thousand dollars. The black material was smooth and so light she almost forgot she was wearing anything. It was revealing, but still classy; alluring, but not slutty. Melanie had never been one for dresses, but even she had to admit, if she saw a woman wearing this ridiculous dress, she would break her no-dating rule and buy them a drink.

            Maalik had also given her a shoebox full of makeup from a brand whose name she couldn’t pronounce. She had protested – she already had makeup, after all, and she knew how to apply it to attract a man from some of the cases she’d worked. The ever-polite Maalik had resisted the urge to scoff (with obvious difficulty) and insisted that she wear what he had brought her.

            She also wore a bra that seemed to defy gravity. There was so much padding laid into the carefully moulded cups that it probably would have made a good pillow if she’d been stuck. The bra, coupled with the careful design of the dress, made her unremarkable B-cup breasts look like something out of a porno.

            To be honest, she kind of liked that. Or she would, if it weren’t so horrendously uncomfortable.

            The other major drawback of the dress was that it was too tight to conceal more than two carefully chosen weapons beneath it. As a result, she only had one small knife and a vial of holy water with her.

            Several men had already approached her. Indeed, she hadn’t had to pay for a cocktail since the first one. She rejected them all, allowing an icy fire to slip into her gaze when they didn’t take a simple ‘no’ for an answer.

            She ignored the jealous scowls and the many eyes ogling her figure and took another long sip of the cocktail.

            She looked up as the bar door swung open and the drink froze halfway up the straw.

            It was him.

            Dean Winchester.

            The man she was going to kill.

            She watched through her eyelashes as he strode confidently over to the counter, banging a hand on the wooden surface as he ordered a drink. He looked around the bar, eying the nearby women without even trying to be subtle.

            He wore dark clothes: a deep grey-blue shirt, a black jacket and jeans. Melanie wondered if he chose those clothes to match his eyes. They were human eyes now, though she couldn’t quite make out the colour from here. She knew they were green, though. A bright, striking green.

            She knew every inch of his face. She had memorized every mug shot, every video, every available picture she had found of Dean Winchester. The stubble had grown into a beard that suited him, and the hair was longer than in most of the photos she had seen, almost shaggy as it fell over his forehead.

            Her heart beat faster as she watched him take his beer from the bartender and take a long pull of the golden liquid.

            She’d found him. At last.

            Rage was coursing through with such intensity her knuckles had turned milky-white. She looked down into her glass, forcing her emotions under control. She would not allow anger to ruin the best chance she’d have of finally killing the creature she had hunted for so many months.

            Taking deep, calming breaths, she slowed her heart rate and focused her thoughts. She knew the plan. Now that he was here, it was time to put it into action.

            She looked back up at him. A third of the beer was already gone, and he was leaning against the counter between two empty stools, surveying the area. He looked like a big cat casually spying out its next meal.

            He drank more of his beer, which gave Melanie enough time to realise the First Blade was not on his person. It was possible it was concealed in the small of his back, but she hadn’t seen the tell-tale bump when he leaned over to take his drink from the chubby bartender. His jeans were too tight fitting for it to be hidden in an ankle holster, and she couldn’t think were else it could be stashed. No normal ways, anyway, she allowed. There must be some portable, multi-dimensional demon cubby-hole floating around him or something because Maalik had been resolutely certain, and Melanie agreed, that someone – or more accurately, some _thing_ – with as powerful an asset as the first murder weapon at their disposal was unlikely to let it out of their sight. Unless, of course, they were either invincible or incredibly stupid.

            Dean Winchester was many things, but he was not stupid.

And Melanie Harker knew he wasn’t invincible. The question was whether or not he knew that.

            Downing the last of the pint, Dean said something to the bartender, who nodded and gestured toward the stage. Dean smiled and sauntered over, pausing to select a song on the karaoke machine that sat patiently beside the stage. His back was to Melanie as he keyed in the track code, and she felt a burst of relief and gratitude for choosing the least noticeable table. He would see her once he got on stage though, which would give her the few seconds she needed to complete her composure and switch into her sexy mode. That always took some doing.

            She groaned quietly, one long, monotonous note that dragged itself up from the back of her throat and dribbled lifelessly down into her almost empty cocktail glass. This was going to _suck_. It would be worth it in the end, provided she didn’t die, of course, but for now, this next phase was definitely going to be unpleasant.

            She repositioned herself on the hard stool, straightening her back and not-so-subtly pushing out her cleavage. She sipped the last of the fruity drink and stirred the empty glass idly with the straw, watching Dean through thick lashes.

            The demon leapt nimbly onto the stage and grabbed the microphone from its stand. His voice, even deeper than she had heard in the old videos, boomed out from the suspended speakers.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dean, and I’m gonna be singing one of my old favourites tonight.” His mouth was quirked in a sly smile, as though at a private joke.

            A few seconds later, Melanie got it. The corners of her lips pulled upward in a wry smile.

            The first chords of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” punched themselves into the bar, and Melanie suppressed a flinch at the volume. She looked up and noticed for the first time that she was sitting directly under one of the black speakers. Great.

            Her head started bobbing along with the rhythm of the song. AC/DC was one of the few bands she couldn’t resist loving, and this song had a beat that could not be ignored.

            “Back in black!

            “I hit the sack,

            “I been too long,

            “I’m glad to be back –”

            Oh. Oh _god_. Melanie quickly schooled her features into a less horrified configuration. Wow. Dean Winchester really, _really_ could not sing. He screeched the words into the microphone, his eyes screwed shut, which was lucky since the entire bar had just winced at the famous song being so expertly butchered.

            “Yes I am,

            “Let loose,

            “From the noose,

            “That's kept me hanging about!”

            Oh it was so awful. _So_ awful. His voice kept catching. The song was far too high for his register. Melanie was suddenly very grateful she didn’t suffer from second-hand embarrassment. Well, any more than she was right now, anyway. She resisted the mighty urge to cringe.

            “I’ve been looking at the sky,

            “’Cause it's gettin' me high,

            “Forget the hearse ’cause I'll never die!”

            He opened his eyes at last and looked at what he clearly thought was his adoring crowd and not a bar full of people doggedly avoiding making eye contact with the idiot on stage. Some of them looked personally offended.

            “I got nine lives,

            “Cat's eyes,

            “Using every one of them and runnin' wild!”

            Melanie was the only one openly watching his ‘performance’. His eyes met hers and a shiver ran up her spine. She let it and smiled indelicately.

            It worked. He winked at her, smiling around the next phrase in the song he really should not be singing in public. But then, he was evil incarnate, so she supposed it made sense that his singing be a form of torture.

            “’Cause I'm back!

            “Yes, I'm back, well, I'm back,

            “Yes, I'm back!

            “Well, I'm back, back,

            “Well, I'm back in black!

            “Yes, I'm back in black!”

            She spent the rest of the song stealing carefully timed glances and the man she intended to kill. He was comically focused on his desecration of one of the best rock songs ever written.

            He was atrocious. People were booing. Loudly. Yet he sang on, right to the end, clearly enjoying himself.

            When the last verse had wrenched itself out of his throat, he stayed on stage, ignoring the continued booing of the crowd and bobbing his head to the beat of the song until it faded into a silence that Melanie doubted had ever been so appreciated.

            He tucked the mic back in its holder on the stand and, with a bow, finally skipped down from the stage. The bartender chose that moment to switch the TVs over to a football game that only had one quarter left to go. Several of the customers cheered.

            Dean glanced over at Melanie as he picked up the jacket he had thrown to the floor during his performance. Melanie stood up, as gracefully as she could in the comically high black heels. She held his gaze with eyes full of promises, plucked her pashmina from the edge of the table and strode out of the bar as though the slightly sticky floorboards were a catwalk.

            Once out of the bar, she shuddered in the chilly night air. The sky was heavy with dark clouds that obscured every star, but the moon’s light shone through the misty screen like an idea.

            There was an alley beside the bar. It was a narrow dead end between Jeb’s Bar and the closed convenience store next door. Someone had bothered to draw two thick yellow lines down the dark corridor, despite the fact that no cars could fit down it. Not in one piece anyway. There was just enough room for the two dumpsters to stand sentinel near the mouth of the alley, side by side like nightclub bouncers, facing the bland exterior wall of Jeb’s Bar.

            Melanie waited until she heard the door swing open behind her. She looked over her shoulder with a coy smile as the demon stepped out onto the pavement. Knowing he would follow her, she slipped in beside the dumpsters, into the alley.

            She turned on one foot and leant against the dirty wall of the convenience store, the dead end several feet to her right. She tucked her hands behind her, feigning shyness as her fingers searched for the brick that was just an illusion.

            “Not the classiest place for a hook-up,” Dean called, wandering down the narrow path at a leisurely pace. He tilted his head slightly in a small shrug as he reached her. “Not that I mind. I’m Dean.”

            Melanie bared her teeth, disguising the action in a smile. She just needed him another foot closer ...

            “I know,” she said softly, batting her eyelids. “I’ve been looking for you.” Her fingers found the hidden alcove. She slipped her hand inside and gripped the weapon Maalik had left for her.

            His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his smile remained unchanged. “Have you now?” His voice was a low rumble. He took another step towards her, until their faces were just inches apart. “And why is that?”

            Her grin widened. There. Perfect.

            Things happened very quickly then.

            Maalik appeared several feet behind Dean and shouted, “Winchester!”, making Dean look around and away from Melanie.

            Melanie’s arm twisted around with impossible speed, her hand clasped firmly around the grip of the Colt.

            Dean’s right hand sailed through the air near his thigh, his middle finger and thumb touching at first, then breaking away from each other as he flexed his hand. As his fingers travelled farther out and away from his hip, his hand clenched into a fist. Somehow the First Blade had materialized into being exactly where his hand was going to be so that, instead of his hand gripping only air, the bone knife was suddenly there, in his fist.

            Melanie brought the gun up just as Dean turned, his eyes flicking to black, a snarl ripping itself out of his chest at the sight of the angel.

            Maalik took a step back.

            Dean raised the Blade.

            Melanie pulled the trigger.

            The crack of the hammer reverberated around and around in the enclosed space, as though a hundred guns had been fired a split-second after each other. The flash of magnesium was blinding in the dark night, and Melanie blinked as the Colt recoiled sharply in her firm grip.

            The bullet sliced through the air faster than thought and burrowed into the demon’s abdomen. Blood exploded from the wound and coursed down over his shirt and onto his jeans. A bright, orange light flashed beneath the flesh around the wound and Dean collapsed to the ground with a strangled gasp of pain.

            Melanie panted in the sudden silence as the echoes faded. The demon was lying on his back, unconscious. Blood spread slowly over his dark clothing, staining his grey shirt in deepest red.

            She’d done it. It had worked.

            She stood frozen, the gun still pointed where Dean Winchester had just been, shaking slightly in her trembling hand.

            Maalik stepped forward and stooped down beside Dean. He studied the slightly pinched face, satisfying himself that the demon was not currently a threat. He then reached forward and pulled the First Blade from the unconscious man’s grasp.

            He straightened up and looked at the still-frozen hunter.

            “Well done, Miss Melanie,” he purred in his deep, lilting voice. “A perfect shot.”

            Nodding jerkily, Melanie lowered her arm and gasped, realising only then that she had been holding her breath.

            “Now,” Maalik said, his eyes alight with zeal. He twirled the Blade between his long fingers as he stepped forward to tower over the young hunter. “The fun begins.”


	23. Interrogation

            Dean awoke with a groan.

            His gut was on fire. Each shallow breath sent a stitch of pain shooting up like lightning from his abdomen. It was quite a feeling, pain in this new body. Well, it was the same body he’d always had, but he was different. He knew from memory that this intensity of pain would normally have him either unconscious for the long haul or curled up and gasping around the pain.

            One of the many things he had learnt in recent months was how to control pain. His old self had always feared it.

            This throbbing in his gut did not scare him. It wouldn’t kill him. He would survive it. There was nothing to fear.

            He opened his eyes and squinted in the bright light. The rest of his body started to check in and he realised with a flicker of annoyance chased by contempt that he was chained.

            Thick grey chains were wrapped around his arms from the wrist to the elbow. He was standing, pinned, with his arms held straight out to either side and his legs, chained tightly by the shins, were fastened beneath him, shoulder width apart. His feet only just reached the cold floor. If he stretched – which hurt – he could take the weight off his arms and hold himself up on the pads of his feet.

            He looked around, taking stock of this new and surprising predicament.

            He was chained to what was unmistakably an Enochian Devil’s Trap. He couldn’t be sure from his restricted angle, but he thought it looked identical to the one Cas had made all those years ago to contain Alistair. Only the Trap on the ground wasn’t chalk, but iron.

            It looked almost like a garden gate. The metal had been worked into the shape of the Key of Solomon, the joints welded unceremoniously together. Thick hinges were visible in the underside.

            It was collapsible. Neat.

            Raising his head, he saw the source of the sharp light. A buzzing bulb hung unadorned from the ceiling, swaying slightly in a distorted circle.

            The room was bare. Apart from the Trap he was chained to, the only other furniture in the place was a simple table. With a shock, he recognised the Colt lying docilely beside an angelblade and a collection of other pointy objects. Where the hell had that come from?

            He glanced down to the hole in his stomach, noting that his shirt was gone. The Colt must have been what they shot him with. That was reassuring – if a normal gun had knocked him flat, that would be beyond embarrassing. His stomach and the right leg of his jeans were stained with a deep burgundy, but the bleeding had already stopped.

            Being a demon was great for your health. He couldn’t bleed out. It didn’t matter if his heart stopped, or even if he was shot with the kill-all handgun, apparently. That’s immortality for you. His body healed itself at an astonishing rate. He’d broken his arm in the second week of his new life – Crowley had tried to fight him, which was adorable – and four days later it was good as new.

            This wound, however, might take a bit longer. He could still feel the silver bullet inside him. They hadn’t removed it. Rude.

            Speaking of ‘they’, where was that angel? And the girl? He clenched his teeth. He owed her a shot.

            More importantly, where was the Blade? He glanced again at the torture table, but the old bone knife was noticeable only by its absence. He reached out with his mind, calling to it the way the Mark had taught him. He couldn’t feel its presence. Frowning, he closed his eyes and concentrated harder, willing himself to find his last puzzle piece.

            Nothing.

            That could be a problem. It was either too far away, or warded against him, though he couldn’t feel the tell-tale repellent pressure from a cursebox.

            Apart from the single table and the Traps, the walls of the small room were covered in sigils. Dean recognised most of them as demon warding, and, now that he was more alert, he could feel their compressing pressure on his chest. He’d never been in such a densely warded room before. Even the bunker hadn’t felt as stifling as this.

            He drew a deep breath experimentally. Pain shocked from his side and he hissed. He couldn’t draw a full breath if he’d wanted to. The warding was so strong it seemed to clog his power. He knew he couldn’t just zap out of this one.

            He wished he’d saved a few souls after taking Hell. Even without the Blade as a conduit, he could’ve blown this cage apart in seconds. Note to self.

            Dean raised his head as he heard a door behind him open. Two sets of footsteps echoed around the bare room. He switched to his demon eyes, wanting to see the angel’s face again.

            He came into Dean’s line of sight from the right, the girl from the left. Circling like wolves around a trapped meal. Dean stifled a snort. They had it the wrong way around.

            The angel’s face was as fascinating as it was ugly. Where a demon’s visage seemed to be made of flame and smoke and raw, fiery bone, the angel’s was a constantly shifting array of bright bluish light. There were recognisable features in the light, in lighter shades of blue and white. Demon faces shifted beneath the skin too, but this ... this was almost painful to look at for more than a few seconds. The features looked ethereal, even though Dean knew the angel inside the stolen meat was as real and tangible as a hostless demon. It was uncomfortable to stare at the hideous fluctuating blueness. It was so bright that Dean wondered how humans couldn’t see them shining through the vessels.

            Stranger still were the two enormous, broken wings held primly behind him. They too, seemed to be made of undulating light, though they looked far more substantial than the angel’s face. Dean’s eyebrows rose. He had to admit they were impressive, even in their sorry state. They were tattered and uneven, the majority of their bulk burnt away in the fall from Heaven. Only the bony limbs remained, but if Dean squinted he could make out the texture of hundreds of blue-white feathers covering the flesh. On the rare occasion he had imagined angels’ wings, he had envisioned oversized bird wings strapped to their human forms. These were far more awe-inspiring.

            He had a sudden urge to see Castiel. Would he look any different to Dean? Any less ugly? Probably not.

            He turned his black gaze on the young dark-haired girl. Out of that knock-out dress she’d been wearing the night before she looked plain. She wore jeans, white t-shirt, and no makeup. He met her gaze and smiled as she shivered almost imperceptibly. She feared him.

            Good.

            But there was more than simple fear in her eyes. Hatred? She’d teamed up with an angel, or maybe had been duped into working for him, but either way, the way she’d acted last night ... She wanted to see him chained like this. It was more than hatred that burned in the intelligent brown eyes.

            Dean knew that look.

            “Good of you to join us, Dean Winchester,” the angel said, his words lilting with an Arabic accent. Made sense, the guy looked like Joe Muhammad. “My name,” he continued, “is Maalik.”

            “Good to meetcha, Maalik. I’d shake your hand, but ...” Dean waggled his bound hand sarcastically.

            “This,” Maalik said, gesturing to the girl, “is Melanie Harker.”

            He paused.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

            Anger flashed through Harker’s eyes and the muscles in her neck popped out as she clenched her jaw.

            “So,” Dean drawled. “You got my attention. Coulda just phoned me or, I dunno, left a message with my secretary. Bit melodramatic, this, don’t you think?”

            He flicked back to his human eyes in time to see Maalik’s face – his human face – twitch in annoyance.

            Dean smiled, running his tongue over his teeth.

            Maalik strolled calmly over to the table and picked up the gleaming silver angelblade. Twirling it deftly in his long fingers, he paced slowly around Harker and came to a stop in front of Dean.

            He was shorter than Dean in his suspended prison. Maalik looked up from the tip of the blade that kissed his index finger. “You have information that I, and my companion, want.”

            Dean snorted, ignoring the stab of pain it drew from his gut. “Seriously? You’re gonna torture me? A demon? C’mon, Maalik, I thought you angels were supposed to be smart. Wait no,” he said as though suddenly remembering something. “You’re just dicks.”

            Maalik’s lips curved in a dangerous smile and he raised the angelblade. Its point rested on the exact spot through which Metatron had stabbed him. He stared back at Maalik, daring him to try.

            “Perhaps you need to understand that we mean business,” Maalik suggested in a dreamy voice.

            Maalik pressed. Blood materialized just beneath the tip and trickled down Dean’s torso. It was a pinprick, no more.

            Holding Dean’s gaze, challenging him with his eyes, Maalik then drew the angelblade lovingly down the line of red, pressing hard enough to scrape Dean’s sternum with a sickly _scrunch_.

            Dean couldn’t hold back the howl of pain that punched itself up from his diaphragm. It echoed around the room, bouncing off the sigil-strewn walls.

            Maalik inserted the tip of the angelblade at the point where the first cut ended, just above Dean’s belly button. Like an artist with a paintbrush, he slowly, carefully, carved another line that curved away from the first to end in a tight swirl under his left breast. Dean felt it grate across his ribs as more blood spilled down his front as though eager to escape.

            With the same careful precision, Maalik drew an identical line in Dean’s flesh, mirroring the second and ending in a swirl just under his right breast. The growling cry of pain that left Dean’s throat didn’t sound human. He sounded like a soul on the rack.

            Maalik finished the third line with a flourish and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

            Dean laughed, ignoring the stinging of his wounds.

            “That the best you got?” He spat out a globule of blood onto Maalik’s shining black shoe. “Pathetic.”

            Maalik only smiled.

            Harker remained by the torture table, her eyes fixed on the blood oozing from the cuts on Dean’s chest.

            “We wish to know, Dean Winchester, how many Knights of Hell you have created. How do you intend to attack Heaven? And is the traitor Castiel your ally?”

            Dean snorted. “Cas? Why the hell would I be working with him?”

            “He is your friend.”

            “ _Was_ my friend,” Dean corrected. “He did put a bounty on my head. Besides, angels and demons don’t exactly make good playmates.”

            Maalik rolled his eyes, seemingly at Dean’s attitude. _Well,_ Dean thought gleefully, _if that annoys you then I’m not the only one in store for torture_.

            Maalik reached out with the angelblade and drew another red line from the centre of Dean’s chest to his left shoulder. He hissed in pain and then laughed aloud.

            “Seriously, Maaly, if that’s the best you can do it’s no wonder Heaven’s gone to crap. You angels are useless.”

            A flash of sliver and a shock of crimson and Dean was cut from sternum to right shoulder. He gasped in between fits of painful laughter.

            “Are you ready to answer my questions?” Maalik inquired politely.

            “Bite me, Wings,” Dean spat, along with a spray of bloody saliva.

            Maalik smiled pleasantly. “Very well, then.” He turned to Melanie, handing her the angelblade. “To work, Miss Melanie.”


	24. From One Black Heart to Another

            Bollocks. Oh, bollocks.

            He’d found him.

            _Bollocks_.

            Crowley took a deep breath and tried to ignore the fear that was twisting his gut unpleasantly.

            “You can do this, Crowley,” he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the man just visible inside the cottage. “You were the King of Hell for god’s sake. You can do this.” He took in another lungful of air and forced it out it a whistling gush. _“Oh, god,”_ he whimpered.

            Straightening himself up, he tweaked his perfectly straight tie and strode forward determinedly.

            He knocked four times on the solid wooden door, ignoring the ornate brass knocker. After weeks of searching, you’d think he’d be at least a bit pleased he’d finally found Cain. In theory, he was. He hated missions. All this legwork with no payoff – how did the Winchesters do it?

            He heard footsteps on floorboards and gulped.

            _That’s enough_ , he told himself, rolling his shoulders. _You’ve dealt with this guy before; he’s not that bad._ He tried to believe that.

            The door swung inward and Crowley looked up into the bearded face and stern gaze of the very first murderer.

            “Crowley,” he greeted with a small nod. “It’s about time you worked up the courage to knock on my door. I heard you arrive over an hour ago.”

            Crowley blushed. “Well, had to make sure I was presentable for the first born, now didn’t I?” He spread his arms and glanced down at his immaculate suit.

            Cain raised one dark eyebrow sardonically and stood aside to allow Crowley to enter the small house.

            “So you knew I was coming, then?” Crowley asked as he walked down the narrow corridor and into an open-plan kitchen and sitting room area. Cain’s new home was almost identical to the previous one. The same couches faced each other in front of a dormant fire in the chimneybreast. The same photos of his dead wife adorned the single bookcase in the corner. Looking around the quaint little cottage, you’d never suspect it was inhabited by the once most powerful and feared demon in history. The man had a crocheted throw draped over the backs of the couches for god’s sake! Talk about nightmarish.

            “I assumed you or Dean would find me eventually.” He gestured to one of the pear coloured couches and Crowley sat, putting a hand over his tie. “How did you manage it? You told me last time we met that the spell you used was a once off trace for the Blade.”

            “Yes, well, the Winchesters can be remarkably resourceful when they want to be.”

            “So Dean sent you?” Cain sank down onto the couch and crossed his legs, reminding Crowley forcefully of an old lecturer he’d made a deal with a while back.

            “Not exactly. His brother, Sam.”

            Cain raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Sam? And why are you running errands for a human? Are you his lapdog now?”

            Crowley smiled humourlessly. “Ha ha. Sam and I are business partners.”

            “And what business is that?”

            “Stopping Dean.”

            Cain remained silent, nodding knowingly.

            “So you’ve heard what’s happened to him? What he’s been up to?”

            Cain uncrossed his legs and leant forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I have heard. He’s quite the successor,” he added regretfully.

            “You knew he’d do all this?”

            “No,” Cain said slowly, staring at the mahogany coffee table between them. “But I know the Mark. And I know how it can twist one’s thoughts. I warned him it was a terrible burden. I had hoped he would be strong enough to resist its power.”

            “Yeah, well. He did try. Before he died, he did try to fight it, but ...”

            Silence fell between them as they each stared into empty space.

            “So,” Crowley said, suddenly brisk. He needed to get this over with before his host turned nasty. “Will you help us stop him?”

            Cain looked up, his deep eyes thoughtful. “Why do you think I can stop him? That I’d even want to?”

            Crowley looked taken aback. “Well, I just assumed, since you gave up the Blade and all that you’d give a damn that a good man is using it to, basically, ruin the world!”

            “A good man?”

            “What?”

            “You think Dean Winchester is a good man?” Cain clarified evenly.

            “I tell you the whole world is literally in danger and that’s your takeaway?”

            Cain merely stared at him with those steady, fathomless eyes.

            Crowley rolled his. “Yes, I think he’s a good man. They both are. Just don’t tell them I said that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

            “And what is the worth of a demon’s opinion on the virtue of a human?”

            “Excuse me?” Indignation was making him bold. “You don’t want to take my word for it, fine. He stopped the apocalypse –”

            “He also started it.” Cain interjected.

            Crowley glared at him. “Yeah, but he and Sam stopped it when no one else could have – no else _would_ have. He’s been fighting since he was a tot – look, my point is, he doesn’t deserve this curse you gave him. And, more importantly, the world doesn’t deserve what he’s planning.”

            “So you say I do deserve the curse of the Mark?”

            _Oh bollocks._ “No, I didn’t say that,” Crowley backtracked desperately. “It’s just, I’ve known the kid for years and despite what a pain in the ass he is – look, do you know what the idiot’s planning?” he asked, exasperated.

            Cain nodded. “He killed Abaddon. I imagine he’s taken her place as leader of her soul mines and army. He’ll probably try to take over Hell. And then, presumably, bring his demons to Earth. And to war.”

            “... And?” Crowley prompted.

            Cain blinked. “There’s more?”

            Crowley took a calming breath, resisting the urge to insult the demon sitting opposite him. “He’s already taken Hell. And not just taken over management, he’s repopulated it with his own army. All loyal exclusively to him. All raised on what he’s told them and nothing else. Idealists, all of them, but smart, too, and good fighters –”

            “What do mean ‘repopulated’?” Cain’s brow was furrowed.

            “I mean repopulated – he’s killed every single demon that was in Hell when he stormed the keep. Now his demons are the ones turning souls and torturing, and _only_ his demons. And he’ll have hunted down the rest of them who were up top by now. ‘Cept for me, of course.”

            “Why hasn’t he found you?”

            Crowley reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out the corded pendant to show Cain. “Finest in demon warding.”

            Cain leant forward slightly to peer at the charms fastened into the leather thong. “I wondered why I couldn’t sense you,” he murmured, more to himself than to Crowley. He straightened. “I assumed I was just getting on in years. I’m still not sure if I can lose my abilities or not.”

            There was a pause as Crowley tucked the pendant back under his shirt and readjusted his tie.

            “So the demon Winchester has taken Hell,” Cain mused. “Impressive for one so young. He’s –”

            “A natural,” Crowley finished for him. “You have no idea.”

            “I still don’t see why that’s such a tragedy. Most of those demons were pompous old traditionalists. No imagination.”

            Crowley barked with laughter. “That’s what I’d been telling them for centuries!”

            Cain’s beard twitched in amusement.

            “But,” Crowley continued, his tone serious once more. “Dean isn’t. He’s creative and he’s got drive. He’s already made hundreds of new demons. And,” he said, pausing slightly for dramatic effect. “I don’t think his plans will end with Earth.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “He means to attack Heaven. Take over. Divert the power of all those millions of souls to his own ends. I can’t be sure that’s what he’s planning, but it makes sense. It’s what I would do if I were him.”

            Cain leant forward, looking perturbed. “Heaven? What makes him think he can take on the angels?”

            Crowley smirked. He loved knowing more than others. “The angels fell. You didn’t notice that global meteor shower a year and half ago?”

            “I did,” Cain allowed. “I just assumed they’d all be back in Heaven by now. Even without wings, it’s not that hard to travel between dimensions, and especially since they are of Heaven, one spell would be enough to return them to their home.”

            “That’s probably what they thought. But Metatron, the old scribe, sealed Heaven off. Some angels are back there now, but they’re weak and disorganised. Ripe for the ambushing.”

            Cain fixed Crowley with a penetrating glare. “And do you honestly think that Dean Winchester has the power to take Heaven?”

            Crowley met the old demon’s eyes without fear. “I think Dean Winchester can do a lot more than just overthrow the angels. I think he could turn every soul in Heaven to black smoke within a few years.”

            Cain blanched.

            “And unless we stop him now,” Crowley continued, his voice low and emphatic, “there won’t be anyone left strong enough to try.”


	25. Phone Call

            Sam lay on his back on the motel bed, caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He felt drained. His laptop lay opened on the bed not far away, but he resisted the urge to pick it up and refresh the search engines he’d set working. Nothing would be different. Demon omens were still lighting the States up like a Christmas tree, yet none of them were his brother.

            Besides, he was so comfortable. He had been driving for fourteen? sixteen straight hours? It felt good to stretch out his aching back at last. And thanks to a drive thru at a nearby Biggerson’s, his stomach was comfortably stuffed. He just wanted to lie here in this dark, anonymous room and sleep for about a week.

            His phone rang.

            With a monumental effort, Sam managed not to throw the damn thing across the room with a loud, protracted groan. Instead, he groped blindly for where he’d chucked it somewhere on the bed, and brought it to his ear. Then he remembered pressing the ‘ACCEPT’ button was usually kinda helpful.

            “Hello?” God, was that his voice? He sounded awful.

            _“Sam?”_

            He sat up, his heart leaping.

            “Dean?”

            _“No, Sam. It’s, uh, it’s Cas.”_

            Sam gave his head a shake, annoyed with himself. “Sorry, Cas, I was just ... long drive.”

            _“I understand.”_

            There was a pause.

            “It’s good to hear your voice, buddy,” Sam said, and he meant it. Something like a smile twisted his lips.

_“It’s good to hear your voice too, Sam. I’ve, uh, I’ve missed you.”_

            “Yeah. Yeah, you too, Cas.”

_“Listen, Sam ... about the last time we spoke –”_

            Sam waved a hand, brushing the apology away. “Cas, listen, you don’t need to apologise. We were both a bit ... out of sorts, I guess. I’m sorry I was such a jerk. Truce?”

            _“Truce.”_ He could hear the smile in Cas’s voice.

            “Cas?” Sam asked tentatively after a moment’s hesitation.

            _“Yeah?”_

            “How, um ... how are you doing? Grace-wise?”

            There was a very disconcerting pause.

            “ _Not ... good,”_ Cas replied at last.

            Sam bowed his head for a moment, screwing his eyes tight shut. He was losing everyone. “How long?”

            _“It’s ... hard to be sure. A few weeks, I think, if I take it easy.”_

            A few weeks. Sam felt despicable. How could have let this happen? Cas had ‘a few weeks’ left to live because he had been so obsessed with finding Dean he’d barely even talked to his best friend in months. But what could he do? He hadn’t come across any angels, even if he could work out how to steal a Grace. And even that would a temporary solution.

            “Cas, I’m sorry. I should’ve been there to help you solve this. I’ve checked the lore, but I just ... there’s nothing I ... I’m sorry, Cas.”

            _“There was nothing you could have done, Sam. It’s okay. I ... I’ve accepted it.”_

            “But you don’t have to die, Cas. You know you don’t. I may not be able to help you, but you can.”

_“What do you mean?”_

            “You know what I mean. You’re in Heaven. Angels are being mysteriously murdered – with their Graces sucked out.” He hesitated a fraction of a second. “You could take one.”

            When Cas didn’t respond, Sam continued, his voice becoming more animated as he thought about it.

            “Just find some angel who’s never really done anything – or one who’s a threat. Hell, kill Metatron, do us all a favour. Take his Grace, and live. Then we can sort this Dean situation out together.”

            _“Sam. What’s happened to you?”_ The sorrow in Cas’s voice brought Sam up short. His brows furrowed.

            “What do you mean?”

            _“Since when does Sam Winchester, the man who spent his life saving people, so eagerly condone murder?”_

            Sam blinked. It wasn’t murder – it was necessary.

            “Cas, you don’t get yourself another Grace, you’ll die.”

_“Yes. But at least I won’t die a monster.”_

            Sam rose to his feet, pressing the phone harder to his ear as he paced the cramped motel room.

            “Monster? Cas, who isn’t a monster nowadays! Dean is, I am, why not you? You’ll die if you don’t – do you want to die? Is that it?” Anger heated his tone and quickened his steps. “Life’s getting too messy for you so you’re just gonna quit? Leave us down here, alone? At the mercy of all those angel dicks? Not to mention the hundred damn demons that are crawling out of the woodwork! God damn it, Cas, we need you. You can’t just up and leave. You can’t abandon us, not now.”

            _“Sam.”_

            Sam huffed an angry breath. “What?”

            _“I don’t want to leave you. Or Dean. But I have to. I have killed more angels than any other living creature. I can’t bring myself to slit another’s throat just to save myself. I should have died long ago.”_

            Sam scoffed, almost laughing. “‘Should have died a long time ago’?” He quoted in disbelief. “Cas, who do you think you’re talking to? I should’ve died when I was six months old, never mind the time I got stabbed, or zapped or stuck in Hell or whatever. We all should have died a long time ago. Hell, most of the time I think it woulda been better if Dean and I had never been born, but we were, and we’re still here, so you wanna know what you do? How you deal with all that?”

            _“How?”_

            “You make things right. You make up for all the crap you’ve pulled, all the lives you’ve ruined. You fight. And you never give up.”

 

            Back in Heaven, Cas sighed. He knew Sam was right. It wasn’t in a soldier’s heart to ever truly give up. But if he didn’t draw the line here, then where? How far would he go? What if he returned to the insanity of a few years ago, when he had released the Leviathans so he could be god? No. He would not kill another angel for their Grace. His life was worth no more than theirs.

            But Sam didn’t want to hear that.

            Nor would he appreciate Cas pointing out the hypocrisy of his words. He had hardly been ‘making things right’ lately. But Cas understood.

            “You’re right, Sam. I’ll see what I can do about a new Grace,” he lied smoothly.

            _“Good. Glad to hear it, Cas.”_

            “I, um ... I should go. There’s still a lot of work to do, up here.”

            _“Yeah. Likewise.”_ Sam’s voice was more distant now, disconnected. Cas wondered if he was resigning himself to another night alone. He wished his wings were healed. If only he could fly to his friend, allow them both the comfort of the other’s presence. They had been alone too long.

            “Goodbye Sam. Take care of yourself.”

_“You two, Cas. Talk soon, okay?”_

            Cas smiled. “I’d like that.”

            He hung up.

            That phone call had not gone the way Cas had hoped. He felt burdened rather than comforted.

            Sam was right, though. He couldn’t leave the Winchesters now.

            Cas put a hand to his stomach as the burning that was slowly consuming him throbbed angrily. His breath caught as he closed his eyes against the pain.

            He didn’t want to leave. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.

            As the pain receded somewhat, Cas raised his head, struck by a sudden idea. It was a pathetic idea, yes, and certainly selfish, but it would give him time. And no one would have to die.

            Cas stood up. He needed to find Hannah.


	26. Missing In Action

            “Where the HELL is he!” Michelle’s roar bounded off the walls of the office like bouncing balls.

            Lucius, sitting with his legs crossed on the leather armchair, didn’t so much as flinch. Michelle had been raging for days now. If she didn’t shut up soon, he was going to have cut out her tongue.

            “Calm down,” he murmured quietly, not expecting her to listen.

            “’Calm down’?” she quoted derisively. “How am I supposed to ‘calm down’? It’s been almost three weeks, Lucius! Three weeks since he was supposed to check in and inspect the factories. You know him – he never misses an inspection, he’s never even late.”

            Lucius nodded passively. This was the fourth? – seventh? – time she’d said these exact words in the last two hours alone.

            With a huff, Michelle flung herself into the armchair opposite Lucius’s. When she spoke again her voice was calmer, sadder.

            “What do we do, Lucius?”

            “We continue as he ordered us to,” he replied placidly. “We do as we were told. Ensure the factories are functioning effectively. Think up new methods. ‘Get creative’,” he said in a poor imitation of Dean’s voice.

            Michelle scowled at him. “That’s not what I meant, Lucius.”

            “Then what?”

            “Where is he?” she asked again, but this time concern, not anger, coloured her tone. “He’s never not checked in with us for this long.”

            “So what you mean to say is, he’s never not fucked you for this long?”

            Michelle puffed up angrily, seeming to swell in the seat. “Watch your tongue, Lucy, before I cut it off,” she spat, venom dripping from every word.

            Lucius’s thin eyebrows raised. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you, whore.”

            Michelle’s features cleared. Smugness replaced the anger and she smiled a thin, tight-lipped smile. “Insult me all you want. That’s hardly going to get you a promotion.”

            He frowned. “A what?”

            “Oh come on, Lucy,” she said exasperatedly. “Stop with the act. You’re still pissed he made me first. If you just worked harder, maybe he’d love you mo –”

            “He does not _love_ you!” Lucius spat with sudden venom, leaning forward in the armchair. “You are his whore and nothing else! I have worked for him since the beginning, I have been loyal to him, I have brought him hundreds of souls!”

            Michelle raised her eyebrows, unfazed. “And I haven’t? Lucius.” She leant forward to mirror his position, though her voice was calm. “Don’t deny the work I do. You know as well as Dean and I do that I bring more souls in. He respects that.”

            Lucius sat back in the chair with a scoff. “Respect. Ha! As if he respects you, you whore.”

            Michelle rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Unwilling to argue further, she leant back in her chair and crossed her legs. She let the anger fade from Lucius’s features before continuing.

            “It doesn’t change the fact that our commander in chief has been MIA for three weeks. I think it’s time we looked for him.”

            Lucius met her gaze with a withering glare. “You miss your boyfriend so much, do you?”

            Michelle shook her head minutely and stood up. “Have it your way,” she said coolly to the demon. “I’m gonna look for him. Keep everything running smoothly until we get back.”

            She strode over to the grand oak double doors that served as the entrance to Hell’s head office. Before pulling the door open, she said, without turning, “Consider it a chance to prove your worth to your precious god.”

            She heard Lucius growl furiously as she swung the heavy door open and left.

            She’d had enough sitting around and waiting for Dean to check in. She knew him. This quest, this vision of his meant more to him than he would admit. He would not voluntarily fall off the map, not without telling at least her and Lucius. He must be in trouble.

            Luckily for him, a Knight of Hell was coming to the rescue.


	27. Captive

            Harker pushed the needle deep into the crook of Dean’s unmoving arm. He barely felt the small prick. It was lost in the inescapable throbbing that ruled his body.

            When she pushed the plunger down, however, he felt it all too clearly.

            The salted holy water gushed out of the needle and into his bloodstream. His traitorous heart pumped the poison away from his arm and throughout his body. It burned like acid. He felt his blood and tissues steam inside him.

            He had no energy left to scream. Instead, a guttural, growling moan fell like the blood dribbling from his lips. With each heartbeat, the water was forced farther and farther through his helpless living corpse.

            He had lost track of how long he had been chained in this too-bright room. It had to have been more than two weeks by now. Maybe even three. His beard was dark with congealed blood. His chest looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, the red crisscrossing lines and smeared blood covering his once smooth skin with countless shades of red. But the worst pain of all was his separation from the First Blade. That was what was killing him. Slowly.

            It was as though burning rusted iron teeth had clamped down on his mind, and they were made of a single thought: _kill_. It ran through his mind on a loop, a ceaseless, painful pounding from which there was no escape. Each syllable reverberated through the dazed caverns of his mind like a physical force, echoed by the spasming pains in his chest. He could feel the undeniable, insatiable need thrashing inside him, tearing him apart far more effectively than the angelblade. How Cain had given this up, had lived through this torture, was beyond Dean.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Despite his Wolverine-like healing abilities, fresh blood trickled down Dean’s torso like a forgotten tap left dripping. Wounds inflicted by angelblades, Kurds knives and even ordinary silver, when laced with salt and holy water, took a lot longer to heal that an ordinary cut. In his first week, he had recognised the lines Maalik had carved in his skin as a spell-form, a demon-warding symbol which he and Harker kept fresh by retracing the half-healed wounds every few days. Having a sigil that repels your very existence carved into your chest was surprisingly uncomfortable. Even through the bullet from the Colt had finally worked its way free of his flesh, the wound wasn’t healing and still throbbed angrily with every breath. His ribs stuck out in red-tinged ridges and his breathing was laboured. His wrists and shins were numb and his spine and shoulders were in desperate need of release from the constant tension and lack of movement.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Oh how he welcomed it. He found an odd sort of solace in the physical pain. It distracted him from the thunderstorm of need blazing through him, burning him more than the sanctified water.

            Maalik and Harker had taken turns torturing him. When Harker was about to collapse from exhaustion, Maalik would stride in, always wearing the immaculate suit and shiny shoes (which Dean used as target practice for spitting blood), and he would take the angelblade or the syringe or the scalpels from Harker’s shaking hands, and she would lumber away like something out of _Dawn of the Dead._

            Maalik was more precise, more controlled. Obviously a professional. Dean had complimented his techniques, asking if he was considering a change in vocation: he’d do brilliantly in Hell. Every bit as good as Alistair had been. Only more patient.

            Harker, on the other hand, was enjoying this way too much. Dean had wondered several times if she was high or something, her eyes were so wild. He’d gathered that he had hurt someone she loved, but so far she hadn’t said much. Not while he was conscious, anyway.

            “Are you working with Castiel?” she asked now, as though asking a passerby for the time. So cheery.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “No,” he droned. The tedium of hearing the same questions over and over was almost as bad as the salt. “Trench Coat’s too good for me now.”

            His words were slurred and his brain clouded with a dense fog that made it hard to think. The constant beating of _kill kill kill_ was hypnotising. With difficulty, he focused on Harker’s dark eyes as she watched her blade twirl between her fingers.

            “How many Knights have you created? Where are they?”

            “On vacation. ’N Bali.”

            He was adamantly being as unhelpful and infuriating as possible. As far as he knew, angels couldn’t kill Knights of Hell, but on the off chance they could, he wasn’t going to risk giving Michelle and Lucius up. They were his family.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Cas he protected more out of habit than anything else, he thought. Whoever was pulling Maalik’s strings clearly wanted an excuse to turn what angels were with him against Cas, and Dean was not going to help with that. He’d heard Cas had been doing well in Heaven, returning one angel at a time and giving them all direction. That had been a few months ago, though.

            Harker responded with a graceless knee to his groin. He strained against the chains, trying and failing to double over.

            “God dammit, woman!” he wheezed. “Seriously, what is with you? I’m a demon and even I don’t go for the jewels!”

            Harker shrugged and took a step back, taking him in. She smiled in satisfaction.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            He glanced down at himself. His front was completely crimson now, with splotches of a deeper burgundy where the blood had dried. His chest was an Etch A Sketch of deep cuts. The sigil, which he knew must be at least as old as Cain if not older, was one of the most complicated spell-forms he’d ever seen. Judging by the significant increase in pressure against his power, the elaborate sigil for warding and weakening demons was as successful in subduing a guy as was a knee to the crotch.

            It was certainly effective. He felt even weaker than he had been as a human. If he was human now, he’d have long since died of shock or blood loss or of the pain alone.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Even now, keeping conscious for more than a few minutes at a time was becoming ever more difficult. Blackness sucked at his mind whenever he was awake, whispering sweet promises of an escape from the aches and stings and burns. Unfortunately for him, Maalik had cast some spell on the chains around his wrists. Whenever he lost consciousness and his heart rate slowed, the chains would burn like salted iron and he would be jerked awake, confused and disorientated.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Every few days (he assumed), when his responses were little more than mumbled gibberish, they did let him sleep. Or recharge, since demons didn’t sleep.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “Y-You gonna tell me wh-where you stowed my blade?” He asked this question at least once a session, mostly just to annoy them. See how they liked being asked the same questions over and over and _over_.

            Harker just smiled sweetly. “It’s safe, demon. I keep telling you not to worry about your precious little bone.”

            She stepped forward and pushed her fist against his stomach, digging into his ruined flesh. She wore iron rings on both hands and they burned his skin like a red-hot poker.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “Whe-when I get outta this thing,” he slurred, fixing her with his one good eye, “I’m gonna rip you apart, bitch.”

            Harker smiled and gripped his throat, forcing his head back against the Devil’s Trap. She reached back to the table with her free hand.

            “Will you, demon?” she taunted him. “How?”

            “Just you wait, you little –”

            His words were cut off by a container of rock salt being poured into his open mouth. He gagged, trying to spit the burning grains out, but the flow was too strong and he only succeeded in swallowing and inhaling more.

            She released him and he heaved. Bloody blobs of it flopped dully from his bleeding mouth onto the floor between his feet. He gasped in desperate breaths around the corroding, burning salt.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            When the fit was over, he laughed.

            “What’s so funny?” Harker demanded.

            “You,” Dean rasped, the single word scraping up along his throat.

            “Me?”

            “Yeah.” He spat out more blood and something stringy that was probably meant to stay inside him. “You. You must ... _really_ ... hate me.” His energy was flagging again, but he ignored the heavy pull of every muscle longing to rest.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Something flashed in Harker’s eyes. She was debating something internally, he knew. He’d seen enough of her methods to know that this hunter had rules. And lots of them. It looked like she was considering breaking one of them now.

            _“Oooh,”_ she cooed, snatching the long, shining Kurds knife up in her hand and tracing it from Dean’s temple to his chin, eliciting another stream of bright red blood that trickled down his neck. “I do, Dean Winchester. I truly, _truly_ do.”

            “Well,” he whispered intimately. “It’s just us h-here. Tell me a story, Melanie.”

            She cringed when he said her name. He grinned bloodily at her.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “C’mon, Mel,” he sneered. “Tell me wh-at I did. Forget to ca-all you?” he mocked.

            The knife flicked to his throat, the tip a hair’s breadth from his Adam’s apple.

            “You murdered Max.” Her voice was low and tight with hatred and grief.

            “Max ...” He stared at her, nonplussed. “Boyfriend?”

            “My brother.” Harker’s voice faltered as her eyes blazed with rage and pain. “My little brother. You stabbed him in a crack house. Over and over.”

            “Did I?” He made a show of thinking. “Nope. Don’t re-member little Maxie.”

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            With a cry of rage, Harker thrust the blade hilt-deep into Dean’s abdomen, widening the hole left by the bullet. Dean gasped as the new pain lightninged through him and the area around the knife burned.

            “You stabbed him!” She yanked the ancient knife out of Dean. “While he was high!” She stabbed him again. “He didn’t even know what was going on!” And again. “He was only twenty!” Again. “And it wasn’t” – she plunged the blade into him – “his” – and back in – “fault!”

            She wrenched the demon knife out of Dean’s gut and stood there panting as he tried to breathe.

            “It wasn’t his fault,” she repeated in a defeated whisper. Her gaze was caught in memory and she spoke as though in a dream. “He just – he couldn’t cope with it. With what happened. How could he? He was so little ...”

            She glanced up at Dean still trying to suck in some much-needed air. He couldn’t raise his head to look at her, but he could hear how desperate she was for him – for anyone – to believe her.

            “He was so young when it happened, how would anyone expect him to handle it? He was only fourteen!”

            She must have mistaken Dean’s brief coughing fit as an invitation to continue.

            “My parents. A demon killed them. In front of Max and me. He was only fourteen, we didn’t even know demons existed back then. And it was _slow_.” Tears shook the words. Her arms swung slowly around to cradle her ribs, as though trying to hold herself together. The knife glinted ruby-silver in the light of the buzzing bulb.

            “It made us watch” – she took a quick, shallow breath – “every strike. I smoked out of the body it was in and into my dad’s.” Her voice caught in her throat as she remembered. “And th-then he started in on Mom. It – it –” She took a deep breath, suppressing a sob. “It was pure evil, that thing.

            “And Max, he was so young, he just couldn’t understand it.” She spoke faster now, desperate to justify herself. “I tried to take care of him, I did. I left Harvard Med to look after him, but I just ... I dropped everything. I was barely functioning myself, but then he met this dealer who promised him a high so pure he’d forget his own name.

            “And he did. For years he did. I ... I couldn’t save him.”

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            She looked up and met Dean’s bloodshot eye. The steel returned to her eyes and voice.

            “And so I started saving everyone else. I’ve killed more demons than any other hunter. I’m what demons have nightmares about.”

            Dean snorted.

            “You don’t believe me?” she asked contemptuously.

            “I’m ... a ... Winchester ... _bitch_ ,” he breathed in a coarse whisper.

            She pursed her lips and gripped the blade’s hilt more securely. “Max was in that house you raided all those months ago. If it wasn’t for you, he would still be alive. You murdered him.”

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “S-So?” Dean wheezed, his voice barely audible.

            “SO?” Harker roared, furious. “What do you mean ‘so’?” She slashed the air with the red-stained silver and a fresh line of crimson appeared across Dean’s cheek.

            “So ... if you loved him s-so much ... why d-didn’t you s ... save him?”

            Harker looked incredulous. “I TRIED!” she bellowed, her voice echoing. “For _years_ I tried everything!”

            “No,” Dean rasped. “Why didn’t you b-bring him back?”

            “Bring – what?”

            Dean’s lips curved in a tired smirk. “If y-you loved him so ... so much, you could have m-made a deal.” He swallowed a mouthful of briny blood. “You could’ve p ... protected h-him.”

            Harker stared at him in disbelief. “I – What good would that do?”

            It was Dean’s turn to frown in confusion. “W-What?”

            “If I made a deal and brought him back, I’d be in Hell in ten years. Then who would look after him?”

            Dean stared at her uncomprehendingly. He closed his good eye, struggling for breath and understanding.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “But ... you could’ve ... saved him. Prepared h-him.”

            Harker stared at him, frozen with fury.

            Dean let his head hang down, resting his chin on his blood-soaked chest and taking some of the pressure off his aching neck.

            “You never ... give up ... on family.” The words seemed to speak themselves without his instruction. Force of habit, probably. He was so tired. His brain ached as badly as his stiff body. He couldn’t summon the energy to care or even consider what he’d said. Lucius and Michelle were his family now. Sam was better off without him.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Harker caught his attention by slapping him hard across the face. Her rings left little burning rectangles on his skin, glowing like hot embers. She grabbed his chin and jerked it upward, forcing him to watch her over his cheekbones.

            “You are the reason Max is dead. It was your fault. And I’m going to kill you for it.”

            Dean laughed a low, gurgling chuckle. “How?” he taunted.

            Her response was to clench her fist around his windpipe. He struggled instinctively to breathe, his arms and legs straining futilely against the thick chains. Within seconds, he had faded into darkness.


	28. A Promise Kept

            When he awoke, Maalik had returned. He and Harker were muttering to each other by the table, as Maalik twiddled the Colt in his dark hands.

            Dean blinked slowly and tried to raise his head. The back of his neck was aching. As was everything else, if he was honest. On the bright side his swollen eye was finally able to open a slit. Although that just added to the pounding headache caused by the too-bright bulb.

            He needed to get out of here, somehow. He needed the First Blade. He didn’t know how much longer he could last without it. He couldn’t understand how Cain had survived a month without it, let alone all those centuries. _Clearly,_ Dean thought, _he’s a stronger demon than I am._

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Maalik glanced up at him. Seeing he was awake, he stepped forward until his dark eyes were locked on Dean’s green ones.

            “How is our guest feeling this morning?” he asked pleasantly. His eyes glinted maliciously.

            Dean couldn’t muster the energy to speak. He simply stared at Maalik through slitted, unfocused eyes.

            The angel smiled, satisfied. “Not so snarky now, are we?”

            Dean blinked slowly.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “My master is most pleased with your progress. You were posing quite a threat to him. You should feel honoured to be considered so important.” He stroked the silver pistol he held. “Unfortunately, special though the Colt is, it cannot kill one such as yourself, only … inconvenience you for a time. Only the First Blade can truly kill you, according to my master.”

            “B-Blade,” Dean murmured, his voice barely audible.

            “What’s that?” Maalik said, leaning one ear forward like a grade school teacher. “What did you say?”

            “B ... Blade,” he breathed.

            Maalik laughed. “Oh, did you hear him, Miss Melanie? The boy wants his blade!”

            Harker’s laughter joined Maalik’s, filling the room, beating into Dean’s headache like tiny fists.

            “Poor thing,” Harker mocked. “We stole his favourite toy.”

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Dean tried to speak, but his tongue was too heavy to form words. His head tipped forward onto his chest in defeat. He was so weak. They must have done something new to him while he was unconscious. Either that or whatever resilience had lasted him this long was failing. The Mark was calling.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            He felt the muzzle of the Colt press against his chin. It pushed until his head was raised high enough for his gaze to meet Maalik’s once more. The laughter had stopped.

            “As I said,” Maalik continued as if there had been no interruption. “The Colt cannot kill you. But as you can see, it can weaken you greatly. And dear Melanie only shot you in the stomach. Imagine how you’ll feel if I pull the trigger now?”

            He pressed the gun further, until Dean’s neck was straining and he was staring up at the white ceiling. He couldn’t breathe properly in this position. His chest zinged with pain, protesting against the sudden stretch.

            “You would no longer be a problem to my master then.” Maalik’s tone was one of calm fury. He longed to pull the trigger and send Dean into some sort of demonic coma. Dean waited, his breath scything out of him in a pitiful wheeze.

            Suddenly the pressure was gone. Dean’s head flopped back to his chest. He scrunched his eyes shut against the agony inside him.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            “But, I promised Miss Melanie that she may be the one to end you,” Maalik said, his tone light and casual once more.

            Harker stepped forward and took the gun Maalik held out for her.

            “Enjoy, my dear.”

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Harker’s lips were curled up in a smile Dean recognised. He had worn that same smile every time he had imagined killing Yellow-Eyes. She had waited a long time for this moment. Dean knew she would enjoy it as much as he had.

            Harker stood facing him, looking up into his half-open eyes. He blinked slowly at her, too tired to feel anything close to fear.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            She glanced down to the gun, weighing it in her hand, finding the perfect grip. She raised it, the muzzle pressed against Dean’s forehead. He kept his weary gaze locked on her fiery one.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            Her finger curled around the trigger …

            … and the room shook with the force of a mighty earthquake.

            The knives and syringes fell with a ringing clatter from the table, landing in a jumbled heap on the floor. The table toppled moments later, thudding to the ground with an echoing crash.

            Harker stumbled, the gun withdrawing from Dean’s head as she fought for balance. Maalik roared with rage as cracks appeared on the walls, destroying the sigils. The iron Devil’s Trap at Dean’s feet shook and rattled until it popped at the hinges, breaking the circle.

            The light flickered madly as the ceiling began to fall apart too. Chunks of plaster rained down amid sprinkling dust on all three of them. One piece the size of a Yorkie hit Maalik hard on the head and he stumbled, lost his balance and fell flat on his back.

            Harker’s black hair was powdered with white. She gaped at the inches-thick cracks snaking their way through every sigil, through every square foot of the small, ruined room.

            Dean’s lips drew up in a smile. He fought to stay conscious. He knew who was coming. And he could feel what came with them.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            The door behind him burst open, flying off its hinges and thudding into the back of the Enochian Trap he was chained to. The metal rang and Dean grimaced as the sound stabbed through his ears.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –_

            With a bellow of wild rage, Maalik leapt to his feet and charged the newcomer, an angelblade flicking to his hand in a flash of silver.

            _That’s not gonna work,_ Dean thought smugly.

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –!_

            He heard Maalik shriek as a brilliant, blinding light filled the room, stunning Harker and burning Dean’s retinas through his eyelids.

            He could feel the rage pouring off Michelle as she strode into view, bloody angelblade in hand and a terrible fury in her eyes.

            _Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –!_

            Harker staggered backward, bringing the Colt up to aim at Michelle’s heart. With an irritable flick of her hand, Michelle threw Harker hard against the far wall, pinning her there as the ancient pistol clattered to the ground.

            The shaking ceased as she turned to Dean. Fury melted to concern as her eyes darted over his tattered torso and bleeding face. He tried to smile for her.

            _Killkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillkill –!_

            Michelle reached out one powerful hand and whipped it back as though pulling a punch. The chains binding Dean leaped towards her as if magnetically attracted to her hand. Dean fell hard onto the cracked concrete ground, his forearms and stomach burning against the iron of the collapsible Trap. With a casual flick, Michelle dismantled the Enochian frame that had held Dean captive for almost a month. It flew backwards and shattered against the far wall.

            Before she could run forward to aid her fallen leader, the fingers of Dean’s right hand twitched. She felt the First Blade she had liberated from an angelic cursebox respond to the gesture. Dean’s fingers twitched again in an exhausted beckon. Before she had time to take a half step forward, the First Blade flew gracefully out from behind her back and landed gently, hilt-first, in its master’s blood-slicked hand.

            For one, immeasurable moment, the room was still but for Harker’s terrified panting.

            Then Dean’s fingers closed around the hilt.

            What followed happened so fast, even Michelle could barely comprehend it.

            One moment Dean was lying as though unconscious on the burning remains of the Devil’s Trap. The next, he was on his feet, charging forwards with a bellow of fury and eyes blacker than the cellars of Hell.

            Melanie Harker didn’t have time to cry out. Her eyes widened in terror and shame as she saw the demon barrelling towards her. The ancient teeth sunk through her sternum and into her galloping heart.

            Which, for her, was extremely lucky.

            Before her eyes emptied of all emotion and her body hung limp in Michelle’s telekinetic grasp, Dean had withdrawn the Blade and thrust it into her seven more times. Her bright, warm blood spattered chaotically over the demon’s face and hands as he fulfilled his promise to her.

            The mutilated corpse of Melanie Harker crumbled to the ground with a sickening, squelching thud.

            Dean Winchester followed moments later.

            Michelle leapt forward, kneeling at the demon’s side. “Dean?” she whispered, concern colouring her tone.

            He didn’t respond.

            “Dean!” she said, more forcefully this time, shaking him slightly. Curling one arm around his shoulders, she hoisted him onto her lap. “Dean? Wake up. It’s me, it’s Michelle. I’m here. I found you. I’ve got you.”

            She gazed at him with horrified eyes. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Glancing around, she saw that the First Blade had fallen from his grip. It lay beside his outstretched hand, the blood blazing against the yellow-brown bone.

            He remained motionless and silent as she muttered reassurances, not hearing a word. She placed the hilt of the weapon in Dean’s unmoving hand, then pressed his fingers gently around the grip. She switched to her black eyes to better see how injured he was beneath the torn and ruined flesh.

            For a second that contained an excruciating eternity, nothing happened.

            Then Dean’s black eyes flew open. He saw the demon holding him off the ground and jerked away from her, terrified. His hand was clenched around something in his hand and he gasped as pain and power thundered through every cell in his body. His confused eyes flicked to green just as Michelle’s widened in shock.

            “Dean, what –?”

            Without thinking, he did the first thing he could think of to escape. Closing his eyes tight in concentration, he focused on the one thing he needed: safety. He vanished from the wreck of his prison as quickly as thought, one word resounding in his head in a silent cry:

            _Sam!_


	29. Gift Horse

            Sam clenched the steering wheel of the Camaro, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to punch Crowley in his stupid English face.

            “So what does that _mean_ , Crowley?” he roared as the engine revved up a gear.

            Crowley’s tone was equally exasperated.

            “I don’t _know!_ I told him what Dean was planning and he didn’t care – until I mentioned Heaven getting invaded and then he said he would help us. That’s all I know! He didn’t say how, he didn’t say when. He just said” – Crowley imitated Cain’s deep, serious voice – “‘Dean Winchester will not take Heaven’. It’s not like the guy’s a big talker or anything. He’s a hermit for god’s sake!”

            “So basically we’re back to square one?” Sam retorted.

            “Basically, yeah.”

            Sam growled. It had taken him and Crowley weeks to just find a spell that might _help_ find Cain. Then Crowley had up and left in search of the old demon and Sam hadn’t heard anything for days. Now Crowley was back and it turned out the whole thing had been pointless.

            They were driving through a lush valley on a winding road flanked by swaths of green field. Clouds hung low between the mountains, lazily obscuring their summits. The day was a typically overcast grey and caught in between heavy showers. The air whipping past the car was wet, as though the rain had run out of places to go and just hovered between the ground and sky. The wipers swished back and forth with a monotonous rhythm, trying to keep Sam’s view of the dull grey-black road clear as they sped on.

            Crowley broke the irritable silence.

            “Look, I know it didn’t work out how we planned, but he said he’d help, so he’ll help. We just ... didn’t get the superpowered bossman we’d hoped for. ‘S not the end of the world.” He turned to look through the rain-soaked window. “Not yet, anyway. Which,” he said suddenly, turning back to Sam, “worries me actually. What’s taking him? We should have heard something from the angels by now. Like screams of mortal agony. Can immortal beings experience mortal agony? Immortal agony, then. Have you heard anything from trench-baby?”

            Sam rolled his eyes. “Cas hasn’t been in touch since he told me about the angel murders.”

            “Oh yeah, there’s that too. Can’t say I’m terribly torn up about it myself. Pompous dicks, all of them. Well, maybe not Cassie. He’s more a backstabbing, toddler who –”

            Something heavy fell from above them and slammed onto the hood of the car. Sam cried out and braked heard, swerving to avoid the thing as it tumbled off to the side. The Camaro skidded to a halt with Sam breathing hard, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

            “What the hell was that!” Crowley demanded.

            “No idea,” Sam said, looking around, perplexed. He saw the thing in the left wing mirror, lying in the middle of the road, strewn over the faded yellow line marking the centre. “Is that ...?” he murmured, leaning closer to the mirror as though that would make the glass zoom in on the thing.

            With a shock of realisation, Sam shoved the door open. “It’s a person!”

            “So?” he heard Crowley call as he jogged through the misty rain to the fallen man, half-expecting to see a parachute or something.

            As he drew closer, another, sharper thrill shot through him. He recognised the prone body.

            It was Dean.

            Bloody, unconscious and half naked, but unmistakably his brother.

            “Crowley!” he shouted back to the car. “It’s Dean! Help me!”

            He pulled off his jacket and gathered his brother up in the warm material, offering some shelter from the chilly air.

            Dean didn’t so much as stir. His thick beard was soaked in blood old and new and his face was bruised and bloodied. It was painfully obvious he had been tortured. His chest was a mess of complicated cuts, spiralling and crossing to create an elaborate symbol Sam didn’t recognise. It was clear from the jagged edges that the wounds had been re-opened to keep them fresh and bleeding.

            “Dean?” he whispered, hugging his unconscious brother to his chest. “Dean? Can you hear me? It’s ok, it’s Sam. I’ve got you.” He ignored the moisture clouding his vision. “I’ve got you.”

            He heard footsteps behind him and Crowley appeared, looking gobsmacked.

            “Bloody hell!”

            “Help me with him.”

            Together, Sam and Crowley lifted Dean gingerly to the car and slid him in to the backseat, lying him carefully over the dark red upholstery. He didn’t even twitch.

            “What the hell happened to him?” Crowley asked, horrified.

            “Do I look like I know?” Sam snapped. “Get in the car.”

            “Wait, the Blade!”

            “What blade?”

            “The First Blade, numskull! Where is it?”

            Sam shrugged, his patience wearing thin.

            “It must be back where he fell, hang on.” Crowley trotted off.

            Sam pulled a spare shirt from the trunk and folded it into a pillow, which he tucked gently under Dean’s head.

            “Hold on, buddy,” he whispered warmly. “You’re gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be fine, I promise you.”

            He sank back into the driver’s seat and pulled out his phone. The signal was sketchy, but there were enough bars for a quick Google search.

            “Got it!” Crowley cheered, sliding in beside him, holding the hated jawbone up triumphantly.

            Sam glanced up at it, then shoved the car into gear and drove off. According to Google maps, they were only thirty minutes away.

            He’d make it in fifteen.

            “Whoa, whoa, speeding much?”

            “We’ve gotta hurry, before he wakes up.”

            “What, to hospital? Listen, Moose, he’s not gonna need –”

            “Not to a hospital.”

            “Then where?”

            “There’s an old church a few miles from here.”

            Comprehension dawned on Crowley’s face. “Ah. A church.” He glanced sideways at Sam. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

            Sam gave one curt nod in response. “I need you to get something.”

            Crowley glanced at him, indignant. “I’m not your PA, y’know.”

            The demon became serious under Sam’s withering gaze.

            “Alright, alright,” Crowley relented. “I’ll meet you at the church in a few.”

            “Don’t forget – O neg.”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Crowley waved the Winchester’s concern away as he blinked out of the car.

            Sam drove in silence, glancing at Dean in the rear-view mirror every few minutes. He had no idea what had happened to his brother, but right now he didn’t care. He knew blood loss wasn’t going to kill him. And this might be his only chance to try the cure.

            He wondered about Dean’s sudden appearance. Considering how ragged and bloody he looked, Sam guessed he hadn’t been fully conscious or alert when he’d teleported. Had he meant to arrive where Sam was? Had he finally decided to let him help, to end his living death of demonhood?

            Sam desperately hoped that was the case. But when had his life ever been so lucky? It was more likely Dean would fight and struggle and say anything and everything he could to stop Sam curing him.

            He couldn’t understand it. When he was hooked on demon blood, he had lied and drank in secret because he believed it was a necessary means to an end. Pulling demons and saving people, he’d thought. But what was Dean’s justification? He couldn’t possibly think he was doing good. And from the last time Sam had seen him, he didn’t even seem to care about that.

            That was the main thought keeping Sam up at night.

            Dean always cared. Even when he had lost hope and had been hurt too many times by his friends, his family, he had always cared, deep down. The idea of a Dean that didn’t care that people were getting hurt made no sense to him.

            When anyone else would have given up, Dean never did. He had given Sam and Cas so many second chances. He never lost faith in them, not completely. He cared too much to abandon them.

            Sam had vowed not to abandon him now.

            He didn’t know how this whole demon thing worked. But he was sure that Dean, the real Dean, his Dean, was still in there somewhere, lost in the dark smoke. All he had to do was clear away the blackness and get through to him. Easy.

            The church came into view. It was tiny, hardly bigger than the last church he had used for this. It had been abandoned ten years ago, according to Google, which made it perfect. Its neglect showed. The creamy paint was flaking and discoloured and three of the visible stain glass windows had been thoroughly smashed, whether by the elements or vandals, Sam neither knew nor cared. It was holy ground; that was all he needed to know.

            He swung off the road and parked in the small gravelly courtyard between the warped wooden door and the black tarmac of the road. The wheels crunched dully as they ground the tiny pebbles into each other.

            He wrenched out the key and kicked the door open. Carefully, Sam maneuvered Dean into the jacket he had been wearing and carried him out from the backseat and over the threshold into the church, trying not to be reminded of the last time he had carried his brother’s bloody, unmoving body like this.

            The interior looked even worse. Many of the old shingles had fallen or decayed so that shafts of dirty grey light shone through the ceiling, illuminating the rotted, mouldy floorboards. Pews that had lined the small hall had been stolen long ago, as had the alter and tabernacle. All that was left to show this had been a place of worship was half a confessional booth and a few faded murals depicting saints and angels in divine light, bringing hope and solace to suffering humans.

            Sam scoffed.

            He laid Dean gently in a corner ,then returned and locked the First Blade in an empty cursebox, wishing he could just grind the hated thing to dust. He reached for the bag of supplies he’d need and rifled through it. The can of red spray paint was almost empty. He’d been drawing a lot of Traps over the last few months.

            Returning to the church and shaking the can vigorously, he began spray painting a Devil’s trap in the centre of the church, where the floorboards were slightly less damaged. He found a somewhat stable chair hiding behind the booth and positioned it in the centre of the red star. He heaved Dean into it, and he groaned slightly.

            “Hey, hey,” Sam muttered, tapping Dean’s bristly cheek lightly. “Dean? You with me?”

            Dean’s brows twitched into a pained frown but his eyes remained closed.

            Sam held his hand to his brother’s cheek for a moment and sighed. “It’s okay, Dean. Not long now, I promise. You’re gonna be okay.”

            He heard a whistle behind him and turned to see Crowley leaning against the doorjamb, flourishing a red and white plastic box. Sam nodded his approval and clicked the demon handcuffs he’d kept with him ever since the day Dean had left around his brother’s wrists. Unwilling to risk any disasters, Sam then pulled a length of rope from his bag and secured it tightly around Dean’s torso, binding him to the chair.

            The paint ran out just as he connected the last curving line of the circle to the last tip of the red star. He tossed the can into a corner and looked up at Crowley. “Watch him,” he ordered.

            Crowley gave a mock salute and took an exaggerated step closer to Dean, careful to remain outside the painted lines.

            Sam snatched up the medical box Crowley had brought and carried it out to the Camaro. Popping the trunk and withdrawing a rosary and a half-empty flask of holy water, Sam opened the box and began to bless the six bags of O-negative blood inside.

            When the incantation was finished, Sam braced himself against the trunk for a moment, thinking about what he was about to do. This was it. Dean would be human again in eight short hours. After months of searching, of wondering, he was finally going to get his big brother back.

            Unable and unwilling to stifle his smile, Sam drew his phone out of his pocket. It rang twice before going to the familiar, confused voicemail.

            “Cas? It’s Sam. I found him. I’m giving Dean the cure. It’s almost over.” He paused a moment, savouring the relief that was only eight hours away. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. Cas should be here for this. Taking a deep, easy breath, Sam gave the location of the run-down church.

            “We need you here for this, buddy. Call me back.”

            He hung up and rolled his shoulders. Right. Time to save his brother’s soul. No big deal.

            Withdrawing a syringe from his pocket, Sam poked the needle into the first of the blood bags and drew the dark liquid into the plastic cylinder.


	30. Phase Two

            Cas felt his phone buzz in his pocket, but he ignored it.

            “No, Hannah!” he said sharply. “I can’t ask you to do it again – once was enough and –”

            “Asking? I know you’re not ‘asking’, Castiel, that’s why I’m offering. It worked so well last time –”

            “No!”

            Cas stared, holding Hannah’s defiant gaze as he tried to control his anger.

            “If you won’t take more of my Grace, then you must leave Heaven,” she said at last, her voice calmer but no less final.

            “You know I can’t do that –”

            “No, you can, Castiel, you just won’t. You seem determined to die here.”

            “I was born here, why is that so wrong?”

            Hannah’s gaze turned withering. “Because we both know this isn’t your home. Your heart lies on Earth, with the Winchesters and other humans. If you insist on dying – unnecessarily – then do it on Earth.” She hesitated. “So at least I won’t have to watch.”

            Cas looked down, frowning at his unpolished shoes. “Hannah,” he said, his voice low. “When I asked you to grant me some of your Grace, I did not intend it to be an on-going thing. I can’t take any more of your life for –”

            “Castiel, my Grace replenishes itself by the minute! You know that – giving you some of my Grace was no different than healing a flesh wound.”

            Cas stopped short. He had been hoping she wouldn’t bring that up. He tried to think up another argument, but he found himself quailing under the force of Hannah’s scowl.

            “Castiel. Please. Take more of my Grace. You’ve almost run out – again. Your breathing is even worse than it was a month ago, just let me help yo –”

            _BOOM!_

            A resounding blast shook the ground under their feet. Both Cas and Hannah crouched, arms splayed, trying to keep their balance as the ground heaved beneath them. It seemed all of Heaven was shaking.

            “What was that!” Hannah exclaimed, reaching automatically for Cas as he stumbled.

            “I don’t know!”

            Together they reached the wide wooden doors of the office and threw them open. What they saw seemed impossible. Unthinkable. They looked at each other, eyes wide. Castiel’s horror was reflected in Hannah’s deep blue eyes.

            Rubble rained down from the ceiling of the adjoining room. The black scorch marks of broken wings painted the walls, interspersed by splatters of deep red.

            Through the double doors at the end of the room, Cas could see the shifting blurs of angels fighting, angelblades flashing silver and ribbons of bright crimson arcing through the air. Heaven shook again, and one of the combatants faltered, losing his balance. His opponent struck him in the chest with her blade and the brilliant light of the dying angel illuminated the rooms.

            Cas swallowed hard. It seemed the danger that had been brewing for months was finally boiling over. Three angels had noticed their presence and were making for them, weapons drawn and bloodstained. With one determined glance to Hannah, Cas drew his angelblade from his coat and as one, he and Hannah stepped forward to face the oncoming slaughter.

            Metatron was making his move.


	31. The Cure

            Dean didn’t stir when Sam injected him with the first dose of sanctified blood. The tiny red dot left on Dean’s neck by the syringe was lost in the fine layer of dried blood that covered the unconscious man’s torso.

            “He looks half dead,” Sam muttered, stepping back and taking in the sad sight of his older brother.

            Crowley didn’t respond. He was staring at the marks on Dean’s chest with a curious expression bunching his dark brows.

 

*****

 

            The second injection made Dean twitch slightly, his brows furrowing as though in pain.

            “Why isn’t he waking up?” Worry was gnawing at Sam’s nerves like a werewolf through a ribcage. “I thought demons healed in, like, a second.”

            “We do.” There was an odd note to Crowley’s tone.

            “What?”

            The demon looked up at Sam as though just remembering he was there.

            “Hm?”

            “What is it?”

            Crowley looked back to Dean for a moment before gesturing to his ruined chest. “These marks.”

            “Yeah?”

            “They should have healed by now.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Don’t they look a bit odd to you?”

            Sam looked more closely at the cuts and scratches. Some of them were hard to see through the curtain of red that stained Dean’s skin.

            “They almost look like ... a spell,” he said at last, wonder and horror colouring his tone.

            “Yeah. I think so too.” Crowley dug his hands into his pockets and scowled. “And not just any spell, either. It looks like the Angel Ring.”

            “Angel Ring?”

            Crowley looked up at Sam. There was a guarded pain in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and solemn. “We need to break that sigil, Moose.”

            “What is it?”

            “It’s ... it’s an ancient sigil, thought up by an angel. Maalik.” Crowley sneered the name as though despising its very presence on his tongue. “He hated demons, more than most angels. But no one loved destroying them as much as he did.”

            Sam’s stomach turned uncomfortably. “What do you mean ‘destroy’?”

            “I mean,” Crowley continued, starting to pace slowly around the outer circle of the Trap, “that the only demons who ever left Maalik’s company alive were bait for bigger fish. And they never left without his say so.”

            “But – Dean?”

            “Yeah, Dean. That sigil is complete. And fresh. Were he an ordinary demon, it would have sucked him dry within a week. And I doubt that feels as fun as it sounds.”

            “Do you think this Maalik guy let Dean go?”

            Crowley shook his head. “The angels can’t be too happy with what he’s been up to. Something tells me they wouldn’t have taken the chance. He must have escaped.” Crowley raised his eyebrows as he came to a stop in front of the unconscious Dean. “Impressive.”

            Sam drew Ruby’s knife from its holster on the mouldy floorboards and stepped over the painted Devil’s Trap.

            “Okay, then. So, just ... break the lines, or is there some ritual crap to do too?”

            Crowley considered, his brows pulling together in concentration. He was silent for a long moment, then, “I have no idea, just cut the bitch.”

            Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam leant forward and, anxiously adjusting his grip on the knife, placed the tip to the centre of Dean’s chest, over the widest of the cuts. Wishing there was a way to do this gently, he drew the blade through the sigil as beads of bright red spilled over it. After scoring through three of what he judged to be the integral structure lines of the spell, he stepped back and glanced to Crowley.

            “Good?”

            The demon nodded.

            Sam looked back to his brother. He hadn’t stirred throughout the process, and now, with fresh blood still oozing down his torso, he looked paler and more fragile than Sam had ever seen him.

            “Be right back.”

            He returned from the car with a litre bottle of water and an old facecloth that had been hiding in a corner of his pack. He knelt down before Dean and, being as gentle as he could, he set about cleaning the blood and grime off his big brother’s tattered frame.

 

*****

 

            Not long after the third shot of purified human blood was administered, Dean began to stir at last.

            “He’s waking up,” Crowley said, breaking the monotonous silence of the ruined church.

            Sam stepped forward, but remained outside the Devil’s Trap. He wasn’t sure what to expect.

            Dean frowned as he raised his head. His eyes opened slowly, as black as night and just as cold. Sam swallowed hard. Seeing those eyes in that face was not something he could get used to.

            Groaning, Dean looked around, blinking his eyes back to green. He looked thoroughly hungover, but a cocky smile pulled at his lips when he saw the two men standing before him.

            “Sam.” His voice was hoarse and rough and oddly formal.

            “Dean.”

            Crowley cleared his throat.

            “Dickbag,” Dean greeted, without looking at him.

            “I’ve missed you too, sunshine.”

            Dean looked pointedly to the ropes lashed to his forearms, then back up at Sam. “So ... gonna try curing me?”

            “Yep.”

            Dean’s smile widened. “You really think that’s gonna work?”

            “Yep.”

            Dean chuckled.

            “Nice beard.”

            “You like it?” Dean smiled, jutting his chin forward to show off his bronze-tinged facial hair. “Grew it myself.”

            Sam rolled his eyes and smiled slightly at the awful pun. “Bet you did. Doesn’t make you look at all like Chuck Nolan.”

            “Sam, Sam. Jealousy don’t look good on you, little brother.”

            “So,” Sam said after a long pause, gesturing to the now-healing wounds on Dean’s torso. “You gonna tell me who did this to you?”

            “You’re not the only one who’s been hunting me, apparently.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Dean rolled his eyes. “I got jumped by an angel and a hunter. They wanted info.”

            “What info?”

            “My plans. Whether or not I was ‘in league’ with Cas.”

            “Are you?”

            Dean jerked his chin up defiantly. “Why would I wanna work with the guy who put a bounty on my head?”

            The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched down in a look of grudging understanding. “Fair point. So are they trying to frame Cas now? Make it look like he partnered up with the demon who wants to attack Heaven?”

            Dean grinned cheekily, but Sam could see pain tightening his eyes, could hear the slight wheeze in his breath. “Well, whadaya know, I’m famous. Yeah, that seems like the plan.”

            “So why didn’t you just tell them you weren’t working with him?” Sam asked. Judging by the severity and variety of wounds that covered Dean, the angel who’d worked him over – Maalik – had had him for some time.

            “I did. They just didn’t care. ‘Sides, we were having so much fun – you should have seen the hunter girl. Melanie Harker, ever heard of her?”

            Sam thought. “Don’t think so. Wait, isn’t she the one Rupert took in or something?”

            “Yep, that’s her. Apparently I killer her brother, so she was all out for my blood, and, oh, you should have seen her face when I told her I didn’t remember him. It was priceless!”

            Sam frowned, disappointed. _Not Dean,_ he reminded himself.

            Dean rolled his shoulders, straining slightly against his bonds. He still looked terrible. His eyelids drooped and it seemed to take a lot of effort to keep his head upright. And yet there was a nervous energy about him, an intensity in his eyes that made him look inhuman, alien.

            “You look like crap, Dean.”

            “You should see the other guys.”

            Sam sank to the floor and sat cross-legged facing Dean. He was suddenly reminded of when he was a little kid and he’d sit, just like this, looking up at Dean as he read him some story or other from a motel bed. “What happened to them, anyway? How’d you get out?”

Dean glanced down at him. “I had backup.”

            Sam raised his eyebrows, inviting him to elaborate. He didn’t.

            “So they’re dead?”

            “Yeah.” Dean laughed. There was a manic glint in his eyes that unnerved Sam. “Very.” He looked up behind Sam, catching Crowley’s eye. “Which is what you’ll be wishing for when I’m through with you.”

            Crowley looked offended. “Me? Dean, I made you who you are!”

            Dean scoffed. “No, Crowley. _I_ made me who I am. You just taught me a few tricks and sold out every ally you’d ever made to save your own skin. You can’t blame me for not wanting a two-faced traitorous dick on my team.”

            Crowley opened his mouth to argue but Sam raised a hand, stopping him.

            “Let’s just ...” He trailed off, not knowing what he was going to say. Try to get along? Yeah, right.

            They lapsed into silence. Sam fidgeted with his fingers, playing with the end of his shoelace. Crowley stared at his perfectly shiny black shoes, his hands clasped behind his back. After a while, Dean let his head droop onto his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and a few minutes later his breathing relaxed to the steady rhythm of sleep. There was a slight wheeze rattling with each breath, and Sam wondered if one of his lungs had been punctured during his ordeal.

            Dean looked so normal in sleep. Even the blood stains covering his face weren’t as alien as the black eyes he hid behind his green ones. Despite the earlier sponge bath, Dean’s face was still more reddish-pink than it was white.

            He twitched slightly in his sleep. Demons didn’t sleep, but then, Dean wasn’t a normal demon. _Maybe he’d been sleeping all these months after all_ , Sam wondered. Either that, or he just needed rest to recover from his injuries. Sam watched him sleep for a moment, growing ever more certain that, despite Cas and Crowley’s misgivings, this cure would work. He’d have his brother back in just five short hours.

 

*****

 

            The fourth injection of Sam’s blood made Dean shiver slightly. Sam eyed him worryingly. Dean noticed.

            “Tickles,” he explained, fighting a smile.

            Sam felt his lips twitch in response. “Hold on a sec,” he said, turning for the door.

            “Yeah, sure. I’ll wait here,” Dean called sarcastically.

            Sam returned from the car a few minutes later with another bottle of water and a clean square of white cloth.

            “Here,” he said, pouring some of the water on the rag. He brought it up to wipe Dean’s face, but he jerked away reflexively and Sam paused.

            “It’s just water,” he reassured him. “Not holy.”

            Dean eyed him mistrustfully, but allowed him to sponge the remaining blood from his face. Sam gulped and tried to ignore the wary look in his brother’s eyes.

            When Dean’s face was clean – or clean _er_ at least – Sam held the neck of the bottle to his lips and waited as Dean took what looked like his first drink in days.

            “Enough?” Sam asked when Dean pulled his head back, and he nodded, not meeting Sam’s eye.

            Sam screwed the cap back onto the bottle and set it and the now bright pink rag on the floor beside the syringe.

            “You want a magazine or anything?”

            Dean shook his head. He was staring at Crowley again like a cat pinning a bird with its gaze.

            “You want a staring contest or what?” Crowley snapped defensively.

            “How did you survive this long?” Dean asked, his eyes never wavering from Crowley’s.

            “What?”

            “I sent my best demons out to find you. They all failed.”

            “Well, don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure they tried.”

            “Crowley. How.”

            Sam looked between them, marvelling at how Crowley avoided Dean’s gaze. It was one thing for Crowley to admit to fearing Dean, it was another to witness the former King of Hell quail under his brother’s scrutiny.

            Reluctantly, Crowley tugged the pendant from under his shirt and held it out on one thumb for Dean to see.

            “Ah. Proto-Elamite protection,” Dean said slowly, recognising the configuration of sigils and charms woven into the thong. “Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked curiously.

            “Like riding a bull on a dingy at sea. During a storm. Drunk.”

            “Impressive warding. Where’d you get the Pegasus feathers?”

            Crowley smiled wryly. “I still have a few secrets up my sleeve.”

            Dean’s lips quirked in a half smile. “I knew you were holding out on me.”

            Crowley nodded his head in a small bow, his grin smug. “Naturally.”

            Sam glanced between the two demons who seemed to be having some sort of smug face off.

            God, this was gonna be awkward.

 

*****

 

            Not long after the fifth dose, Dean’s posture began to straighten. The contusions that littered his face were almost healed. Hope fluttered in Sam’s chest.

            “Feeling better?”

            Dean looked up at him, smiling politely. “Much.”

            Sam’s answering smile wavered. He dismissed the twinge of fear that twisted in his gut. Dean looked slightly unhinged. There was a feral edge to his grin that looked so ... un-Dean-like.

            “Good. That’s, uh ... good,” he said uncomfortably.

            Crowley, who was not dealing well with the boredom of the slow cure, and since this time he wasn’t physically restrained inside the church, excused himself. A few minutes later they heard the tinny beats of a song playing in the car.

            “So,” Dean drawled. “Sam Winchester, BFFs with a demon. Again.”

            Sam scowled. “He is not my friend. We have a deal.”

            “Like you and Ruby had a deal?”

            “Ew, gross, no! He was just helping me find you. Trust me, as soon as you’re better, he’s dead.”

            “Pft. ‘Find me’. Doing a bang up job, ain’t he? You’ve been working with him for, what, half a year? Longer? How helpful’s he been ‘finding me’?”

            Sam said nothing. He paced slowly across the unpleasantly springy floor, too restless to sit still.

            “Ever wonder why that is?” Dean pressed. “The old King of Hell can’t find one demon, but he can make a charm necklace powerful enough to hide him from me?”

            “What are you saying?”

            “Oh, Sam.” Dean smiled the way he did when they were kids and he was savouring the triumph of duping Sam into thinking tiny people who lived in the floorboards kept stealing his left sock. “You still don’t get it? Crowley’s a double agent, Sherlock. He’s been working for me since the beginning.”

            “You’re lying,” Sam snapped. Demons lie. He tried to ignore the fact than he was talking about two demons, one who he already knew was hardly a commercial for integrity.

            “Am I?” Dean smiled as he watched Sam wear a path over the floorboards. “Demons lie, right?” His eyes turned black and Sam winced slightly. “One of us is bound to be. But which one?”

            “Shut up.”

            “C’mon, Sam!” Dean said loudly, clearly enjoying himself. “How’d you think Crowley knew so much of my master plan, huh? How’d you think he escaped me? Dunno if you’ve heard, but I’m kinda a tough boss to beat.” The pride in his voice would have made Sam laugh if the circumstances were less confusing and tragic.

            “You had him in a draining cell. He got out.”

            Dean laughed. “Sure, yeah, a ‘draining cell’,” he jeered. “’Cause that doesn’t sound made up _at all.”_

            “Shut up, Dean!” Sam retorted, whipping his head to glower at his brother as he quickened his pace unconsciously.

            Dean chuckled again, shaking his head at his captor’s stupidity. “Yeah, yeah. But you don’t have to believe me. I mean, I’m a demon.” He looked up at Sam, unperturbed, fixing him with his black-eyed stare. “I might be lying.” His eyes faded back to green. “Or I might not.”

            “Stop it, Dean.” Sam’s voice was low and far calmer than he felt.

            “Or what, Sam? Gonna gank me?” He nodded to Ruby’s knife, which waited patiently in a holster strapped to Sam’s thigh.

            “No. I’m going to cure you.”

            Dean swung his head in an arc, groaning loudly. “Oh, Sam! Don’t you get it yet? I don’t want to be cured!”

            Sam frowned and shook his head, not willing to even consider this ludicrous possibility. “Of course you do. You just can’t tell ‘cause you’re possessed or lost in there or something. You’re sick, Dean.”

            “Sick?” Dean’s booming laugh filled the small church, echoing off the decaying walls and ceiling. “Sam, I have never felt better!”

            Sam shook his head again, smiling slightly. This wasn’t Dean talking. It was the demon part of him.

            “You don’t mean that,” he said softly, as though correcting a child who was adamant that grass was the Earth’s fur.

            “You, you have no idea how much I mean it.” Dean straightened in the chair, leaning as far forward as the rope would allow.

            “All that bullshit that was weighing me down,” he said emphatically. “All that grief and guilt and shame – over things that happened years ago! You know I still blamed myself for Mom and Dad? For Bobby and Kevin and Ellen and Jo and everyone we got killed. Hell, I still had nightmares about the time that Jake kid stabbed you! You know how much all that crap was stopping me? Holding me back?” He paused and looked at Sam, his face alight with zeal. “And now it’s all gone.”

            Sam stared at him uncomprehendingly. Blaming himself for things that weren’t his fault was almost as much a part of Dean as was the Impala.

            “And you have no idea how ...” He glanced around the church, searching for the right word. “Liberating that feels. This feeling, this _power_.” He nodded toward his right forearm, where the Mark of Cain lay hidden by Sam’s jacket sleeve. “It’s so immense. It fills me. There is nothing I can’t do!”

            “But you’ve gotta know how wrong all this is!” Sam roared back, snapping as the frustration and pain that had been festering inside him for so many months reached an unrestrainable pitch. “You’ve killed hundreds of innocent people, Dean!”

            _“Thousands,”_ Dean corrected, savouring the word on his tongue.

            Sam stared at him as though he had gone mad. “No, no, this isn’t you talking,” he said aloud, shaking his head.

            “‘Not me talking’?” the demon quoted derisively. “And who else would it be? You know it’s just me in here, don’t you, Sam? It’s not like I’m possessed. I am the possession. I am a demon.”

            “I know that,” Sam spat. “I’ve been researching every damn thing about the Mark and Cain – I know it’s not some ancient demon stuck inside you or something.” He leant forward, towering over the smiling Dean. “But it’s not you. Not right now. I know it.”

            “Oh, of course you do,” Dean agreed in a voice like silken honey. “’Cause I get it now. I never understood before I woke up, before I was born again.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “You. And the demon blood.”

            Sam straightened up, his expression guarded.

            “What, you thought I’d forgotten about that?” Dean mocked. “Give me a little credit. But I really do understand now, why you chose Ruby over me, why you didn’t listen. Why you kept drinking it down. You liked how it felt.”

            “Shut up.”

            “You liked the power, all that extra mojo.”

            “Dean, shut up!”

            “That invincible feeling. It trumped everything –”

            With a flash of glinting silver, Sam flicked the demon knife into his hand and held it to Dean’s throat in warning.

            “Not everything,” he growled.

            _“Thaaat’s_ it,” Dean purred. “The famous Sam Winchester rage.” He winked. “Can always count on that. Unlike you.”

            Blackness drifted over Dean’s eyes like a shroud.

            _“Do it,”_ he cooed. “You know you want to. Go on, little brother, try to kill me. You’ve wanted me dead for years.”

            “What?” Sam breathed, backing away. The white line left by the edge of the knife stood out in sharp relief against Dean’s tanned skin before it disappeared. He stared at Dean as though he didn’t recognise him. “What did you say?”

            “Come on, Sam, don’t deny it. You’ve resented me for years. Your life would be so much easier, so much sweeter if I wasn’t around.”

            “That is not true,” he breathed, completely stunned that Dean would so much as entertain such a horrific notion as this.

            “Yeah, _sure_ it’s not,” Dean sneered. “Admit it, Sam, if I was dead, you’d be off with some girl living the apple pie life and pretending this world” – his eyes flicked black for a moment – “didn’t exist. I’ve always been what’s drawn you back into hunting and you’ve always hated me for it.”

            Hot tears prickled just behind Sam’s eyes, but he did not allow them to form. He gave his head a slight shake and leant forward, bringing his face close to Dean’s. He didn’t care if this was some demon trick. If Dean truly believed that, even for one second, Sam had to set things straight.

            “Dean. Listen to me.” His voice was low and fervent, and such was his focus on Dean that he didn’t hear the faint _shnik_ of the rope as it broke. He stared intently into his brother’s eyes and so missed the moment when the winds of rope slackened around Dean’s arms.

            “Don’t you think that. Not for one second. We’re _family_ ,” he said forcefully. “I have never wished you were –”

            The only warning Sam had was the almost imperceptible change in Dean’s expression. It was the merest twitch of the brow and lips, but it told Sam, too late, that he had made a mistake.

            Dean’s fists rammed into Sam’s chest as he grabbed fistfuls of his plaid shirt and heaved him effortlessly into the air as he stood. Sam cried out in shock and grabbed Dean’s wrists, trying to hold some of his weight as his feet paddled uselessly in the air a foot above the mouldy floorboards.

            “Dean! What –”

            He was cut off as Dean threw him across the church and he slammed hard into the wall beside the door. The breath _whoosh_ ed out of him and he crumpled to the ground, dazed. He gasped in a great breath as his vision swam. He saw a slightly blurry Dean kick the ropes that had fallen to his ankles out of the way and stamp loudly with one booted foot with a loud _crack!_ A section of floorboard sprang up from the strength of the strike, and Sam realised with a thrill of horror that the piece of wood that flew up into Dean’s sure hands had a line of bright red paint on it.

            Sam struggled to get to his feet, but didn’t have time to shield himself as Dean strode forward and walloped him with the wood. With a grunt of pain, Sam fell to the side, seeing stars.

            “Humans,” he heard Dean say somewhere above him. “So easy to mess with.”

            He felt a fist grab the back of his shirt and heave him up, followed by a knee making solid contact with his gut. He wheezed, winded once again.

            “So easy to _break.”_

The next thing he knew he was flying once more, away from the door and his only escape. He landed with a bone jarring _crash_ on the opposite side of the church, a high ringing in his ears. He cried out as he felt his arm snap on contact with the ground and he rolled onto his back, cradling the surely broken limb and gasping.

            Dean was on top of him in seconds, heaving him to his feet and shoving his back into the church wall. Sam was still struggling to draw in a full breath, sure that some of his ribs must have cracked.

            “I should thank you, Sam,” Dean said casually as he drew his arm back as far as the demon cuffs would allow and punched Sam hard across the face, with far more strength than any human could muster. Blood burst from Sam’s lip and he felt his cheekbone fracture. “I was really in bad shape there, y’know?”

            “De –”

            Another punch, this time with both fists. Sam’s head snapped around so quickly his neck spiked with zinging pain.

            “But that holy blood. Mm.”

            “Dean, pleas –”

            A knee to the stomach as Sam tried desperately to suck in just a thimbleful of air.

            “Better than Dad’s old cure-all. Sure, it stung a bit, but ...” He chuckled. “I’ve never felt better!”

            Another fist to Sam’s face and he went limp in Dean’s grip. He was still semi-conscious, but his brain was moving slowly, stunned by the waves of pain.

            A series of vicious blows darkened the world around him. He tried to speak, to beg his brother not to do this, not to kill him, _please_ , but there was no air in his lungs and his tongue was swimming in hot, tangy blood.

            He felt Dean let go of him and heard him cry out angrily. Sam fell to the floor, finally pulling in a much-needed breath. He looked around the church with wide, unfocused eyes, trying to see through the gathering shadows.

            He saw two dark blurs fighting. The taller was winning, pummelling the shorter with a speed and ferocity Sam’s clouded eyes couldn’t follow. They broke apart and the shorter blur shouted in Sam’s direction, but his dazed brain couldn’t make sense of the words. It was like hearing a snippet from a radio that was swirling in and out of tune.

            _“SA-AM,”_ the voice seemed to say. Something was wrong with the volume. He knew the blur must be shouting, and yet all he heard was a tired whisper. “GE-ET OU ... ‘F HERE!”

            Sam’s head fell sideways onto his shoulder. He didn’t remember wanting to do that. The larger figure jerked his hands apart and a metallic snap rang through Sam’s aching brain. The blur held out its hand to the rectangle of too-bright light that shone in the distance, and a shadow spun into being, landing in the blur’s outstretched hand.

            Sam blinked slowly. He knew he was in danger. He knew he was hurt. His head felt fuzzy and light and heavy all at once and so _very_ sore. His mouth hung open and he could feel and taste blood on his tongue and lips. His lungs weren’t strong enough to expand against the crushing weight of his own chest and agony throbbed through him without mercy.

            He blinked again and the blurs came into slightly better focus. The tall one held a jagged knife in one hand and the smaller figure in the other. Fear crackled in Sam’s aching gut and he tried to get up, to do _something_ , but his body wouldn’t obey him.

            His vision began to grow dimmer. Everything was shades of grey and black and the rectangle of white was shrinking and shrinking.

            Just before Sam was consumed by the blackness, he saw a flash of red-white light that seared his retinas. There was an echoing cry of pain that should have been louder and a cackle of familiar yet alien laughter and then ...


	32. You Would Not Believe The Day I’ve Had

            Tom Carlton had had the crappiest of crappy days. For some inexplicable reason – because he _knew_ he’d made sure it was set – his alarm hadn’t gone off, and so he’d ended up almost forty minutes late for work, which, in a law firm, was more like an hour. That had meant he’d had to work through lunch to catch up on the cases he was working on. Then it turned out he’d forgotten to sign one of the files he’d dealt with the previous week, and of course it was a top shelf priority one so his boss had shouted himself hoarse at Tom’s inadequacy.

            It was one of those days that started bad and only got worse. It seemed to drag on forever, so that by the time he finally slid into his car, he felt he’d worked a whole week in just one day. He was exhausted and crabby and was not in the mood to sit in traffic for hours on the way home.

            To clear his head, and to avoid the usual rush hour gridlock, Tom pulled off the highway and took the longer scenic route home.

            He really liked this drive, especially on evenings like this. The clouds were low and heavy with rain and the light was the same dull grey of the building he worked in. Going through the city on days like this felt like being trapped in some hellish black and white film where nothing ever happened. The valley, even though the green of the grass and trees somehow managed to look slightly grey, reminded Tom that colour did still exist in the world.

            He drove steadily through the winding road, taking his time. At least it wasn’t his night to fix dinner. Mike would have some delicious concoction bubbling on the stove and fries in the oven, regardless of whether or not they went with the main course. He loves fries. Had them with every meal he could, even breakfast if Tom wasn’t around.

            Thinking of home and Mike lifted Tom’s mood, dragging him out of the miserable rut he’d been in all day. He’d get home, tell Mike all about his mind-blowingly awful day, they’d have dinner and then open a bottle of red and watch some stupid movie with no plot and too many explosions. A fail-safe cure for a bad day at the office.

            The old church came into view as he drove farther along the valley floor, marking the halfway point of Tom’s journey. It was an ancient wreck of a thing. No one had been in there for years and it was falling apart. It looked sad; the stained warped wooden walls were sagging as if the old building was crying in its solitude.

            As he drew closer, Tom saw a car parked outside it. That was weird. He craned his neck round to catch a glimpse of what he expected to be some family van or old geezer car – surely they’d just stopped to use the restroom.

            It was a Camaro! A Z28 no less! Tom didn’t know a thing about cars, but Mike was crazy about them. The only reason Tom even recognised the Chevy was because it had been Mike’s desktop background for weeks.

            Tom drove on, wondering who owned the car even he had to admit was gorgeous. Had they just stopped to use the restroom, or had they run out of gas? Were they tourists who’d gotten lost this far away from the highway?

            Tom pressed the brake pedal uncertainly. He had this feeling he should turn back. Few people ever took this road. It was miles of scenery that connected two unremarkable towns that had been all but forgotten about since the highway had been built eight years ago. He knew petrol heads loved touring the States’ little-used roads, seeing more of the country, avoiding traffic and, according to Mike, giving them a chance to see what their cars could do.

            So the driver of the Camaro could easily be one of these petrol heads on a cruise who’d just stopped to look inside an old church. To someone who didn’t know the area, it was probably a curiosity worth stopping for. There could be absolutely nothing wrong or ominous about the classic car left outside an abandoned church. Hell, it could be a bunch of addicts getting high for all he knew.

            Or it could some old, hip granny who’d broken down.

            Tom eased the break pedal further down.

            “Goddammit!” he muttered as he made a U-turn, heading back the way he’d come. If he didn’t find out, it was going to drive him mad all night. He couldn’t stand cliffhangers. Besides, Mike would probably love a picture of the old Chevy. Yeah, he’d use that as an excuse. It was innocent enough, just a curious lawyer wanting a photo of a classic car on his way home from work.

            He pulled up beside the Camaro, the wheels of his Ford crunching on the gravel. The Chevy’s rear door was open. He stepped out of the car feeling nervous and excited. Making a herculean effort not to snoop in the back seat, he drew out his phone and snapped one quick shot of the car, wincing as the shutter sound broke the stillness of the scene like a gunshot.

            Keeping his phone in hand, he pushed the faded, cracked old door open, jumping slightly as its hinges gave way. He stepped over the threshold warily, looking around at the still, dank interior of the ruined church.

            Shafts of silvery light shone through the holes in the roof. The few shards of coloured glass that had survived whatever catastrophe had befallen the rest of the stained glass windows added hints of rose and diluted honey to the light that fell from the gaps in the moving, stormy clouds.

            Tom stepped forward slowly, struck by the absolute stillness of the place. It was like going to a school long after it was closed for the summer. It should be a place of bright light and community, a sanctuary and a place to turn to for guidance. Instead, it felt dead. Rotting.

            The shattered fragments of wood that, Tom assumed, had once been a chair lay scattered around the small room. A broken confessional booth lay crumpled and forlorn by the wall. There was a disturbingly satanic-looking symbol painted on the floor.

            As Tom’s gaze swept the warped floorboards, he froze. He wasn’t alone.

            “Oh my god!” he gasped. He ran forward to the nearest of the two unconscious men. He knelt down beside the man in the black suit and fluttered his hands over his prone figure, with no idea what to do.

            “Police,” he muttered, fumbling with his phone and stabbing the touch screen, wishing it unlocked faster. He dialled 911 and pressed the phone to his ear.

            While the call connected, his brain kicked back into gear. He pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, searching for a heartbeat.

            The skin was as cold and hard as marble.

            He was dead.

            Tom leaped back, horrified.

            The phone clicked against his ear. Tom jumped at the tiny sound. It seemed magnified in his terror.

            “911 emergency response?”

            Tom blinked rapidly, trying to remember how to speak. “H-Hello?”

            “Yes, sir, I can hear you. What is your emergency?” came the calm, measured reply.

            He slapped a hand to his forehead, trying to remain calm. _The guy was dead, I just touched a dead body, an empty body – oh my god, oh my god, oh my god –_

            “Sir, are you still there?”

            Tom nodded frantically, swallowing hard. Remembering how telephone conversations worked, he finally bullied his tongue into working. “Y-Yeah, I’m here, I’m here.”

            “Can you tell me your name?”

            “Em, Tom. Tom Carlton.”

            “What is your emergency, Tom?”

            The calm of the woman’s voice reached through the phone and soothed him, helping him to focus. He explained where he was and what – who – he had found.

            “A-And I think he’s, I mean, he’s cold and there’s no heartbeat. I think he’s dead.”

            “And the other man?”

            “Oh right.” Tom ran over to the other, taller man who lay crumpled in a bloody pile against the far wall.

            “Oh god,” Tom breathed, afraid to touch the prone figure. “Ehm, he’s – he’s hurt real bad. He’s, uh, he’s unconscious and, god, there’s blood all over him –”

            “Does he have a pulse?”

            “A pulse? Oh, okay, I’ll check.”

            With trembling fingers, Tom nervously reached out to the man’s neck, aiming for a section of skin that wasn’t bruised or bloody.

            The faint flutter that pressed against Tom’s fingertips made him sag with relief.

            “He’s alive! He’s got a pulse. It’s really weak and slow, but he’s alive!” Tom couldn’t understand it. The guy was so thoroughly beaten; it amazed him that he could still be clinging to life. He and the dead man must have been lying here for hours at least.

            “Good, good. I’m sending an ambulance, okay, Tom? They’ll be there in ten minutes. Can you stay with him until then?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’ll stay. Is there anything I can do to help him? There’s so much blood.”

            The woman talked him patiently through a few steps of basic first aid. She warned against moving the man too much, in case he exacerbated any spinal injuries. Tom’s nervousness shot up another three levels at that, but the woman – Sophie, she said – calmed him down again.

            There was a very good reason Tom had chosen to pursue law and not anything remotely medical. This experience, terrifying as it was, was making him feel a lot better about his crappy day at work. Bad days in a law firm didn’t include dead people. Usually.

            With Sophie’s patient instruction, Tom helped clear the man’s airway and make it easier for him to breathe. He pulled off his blazer and, after several attempts, managed to rip it up and press it against the deepest patches of red. The man wasn’t bleeding much anymore, but Sophie said it was a good idea to put pressure on the worst of the wounds. Besides, he really hated that blazer. Mike had gotten it for him on their third anniversary.

            The glorious sound of a siren broke the tense stillness of the dead church. Relief broke like a tidal wave over Tom as a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding gushed out of him.

            “It’s okay, man,” he muttered to the unconscious man before him. “Help’s here. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

            Tom hated making empty promises.

            The paramedics jogged in and gently shooed Tom away from the body. He watched awkwardly as they secured the man’s neck in a bright red brace, questioning Tom all the while. When had he found them, what had he done, had the man woken or shown any signs of alertness ...

            Once the tall man had been safely bundled into the ambulance, one of the paramedics – Katelyn – returned to manoeuvre the black-suited man into a body bag. Tom tried to help, but a squeamishness he hadn’t known he’d possessed rendered him more of a hindrance than anything.

            The dead man was loaded into the ambulance beside the other. A ventilator had been strapped around the unconscious man’s nose and mouth and a machine in the wall beeped in time to his slow heartbeat. A squad car arrived just as the paramedics were making ready to leave. The questioning started all over again for Tom while one of the officers inspected the Camaro. He seemed unable to open the car’s trunk.

            Tom watched the ambulance speed off with an unpleasant squirming feeling writhe in his stomach. He was no expert, but if his years watching _Grey’s Anatomy_ and the paramedic’s unnecessarily sombre expressions were anything to go by, that man, whoever he was, would not be alive much longer.


	33. Time Up

            Cas’s feet pounded unevenly along the rubble-strewn hallway, the heavy sack swinging wildly in his clenched fist. His lungs ached for a full breath, the stitches in his sides pinching like pincers between his ribs. Exhaustion snapped at his heels and pulled at his coat, eager to drag him into the numbing caress of unconsciousness.

            But sleep was not an option. Sleep, now, meant death. Castiel knew that if he stopped for a moment, if he allowed his mind or body to relax one iota, they would find him and kill him without a moment’s hesitation.

            He ran on.

            Cas’s weary mind was still struggling to comprehend how Heaven could have so easily, so abruptly, come apart.

            Without daring to slow, he turned a corner, his momentum carrying him into the far wall, jarring his already aching shoulder. His breath was punched out of him by the force of the impact, but he didn’t care. He pushed off against the cracked plaster and sprinted on, willing his leaden legs to hurry, wishing his wings were whole.

            The corridors and halls of Heaven were a frightening mockery of their former splendour. Ornate pillars and carvings, timeless paintings and mirrors, doors as old as Heaven itself lay fractured and broken into countless, barely recognisable debris. Fine dust lay like a funeral shroud over the rubble, the air so thick with the pulverised marble and plastering that Cas was sure his hair must be white with it. It clung to his clothes as though latching on to their only means of escape from the destruction that still shook the ruined halls.

            Another rumbling tremor shook the ground with such ferocity Cas lost his footing. He threw out his hands in a futile attempt to regain his balance, but only succeeded in landing hard on his free wrist and hearing a sickening _crunch_. His strangled groan was lost in the not-so-distant crashing and renewed screams.

            Pulling his injured wrist close to his chest, he rolled over onto his side, desperate to relieve the pressure on his lungs. Dust coated his tongue. He could barely suck in the smallest of gasps.

            They would find him. They would kill him.

            Exhaustion crawled over him like darkness itself, dragging one spent muscle after another into the aching relief of rest. He had no strength left to fight its steady pull. He was sinking into a sleep he knew would be his last. He clutched the faded sack more tightly to his barely moving chest. Angels don’t sleep. But the once-mighty Castiel’s eyelids were slowly closing. Perhaps, this time, his journey through this incredible universe was truly ending ...

 

*****

 

            “Metatron?”

            The former scribe of God looked up from his lap, the satisfied smile already creeping onto his lips. Sariel stood behind the now useless bars, his face alight with triumph.

            “It’s time.”

            Metatron’s smile broadened. “And the others?”

            “Waiting just outside. They thought I should be the one to ‘free you’.”

            They both chuckled, their deep voices filling the space between them.

            “What about the disloyals?” Metatron asked.

            “Dead. Or about to be. Harut estimates no more than ten unbound angels still breathe.”

            “And Castiel?”

            “One of them.”

            The old scribe did not hide his displeasure that a half-dead shadow of an angel could have evaded his followers so easily. Sariel looked suitably embarrassed.

            “Well ...” he drawled, thinking it over. “That might actually be better. I can’t say I wouldn’t love to grind that pain in the ass into dust, once and for all.” He perked up. “Actually, that’d be the perfect inaugural act, wouldn’t it? Kind of symbolic, too. Dear old Cassie, the face of the rebellion, crushed under the boot of Heaven’s true hero, in front of his adoring fans – I mean, disciples,” he amended quickly.

            Feeling his good mood inflate in his chest, Metatron stood up and gestured to Sariel to unlock the cell. It was a formality of course, but one Metatron wanted to observe. The fact that Heaven’s prison was no more confining to him than a pair of human handcuffs just made the sight of the dark-skinned angel pulling the creaking door open all the more satisfying.

            “It’s time,” Sariel said again. The fire Metatron had carefully fanned over the past year blazed in the angel’s fierce eyes.

            Metatron resisted the urge to snort. As useful as Sariel had been, he still had no concept of the scope of Metatron’s powers. No inkling of how incredibly irrelevant he was. How expendable. They all were, of course. Angles were fickle. Their loyalty changed as easily as the winds.

            Metatron stepped forward. His booted toes halted side by side centimetres from the cell’s threshold.

            This was it.

            Months of planning had led to this moment.

            The angels had made their choice. They had chosen their new god.

            Stifling a gleeful grin, X stepped out of Heaven’s prison to meet his waiting army.


	34. Broken

            Dislocated shoulder. Six broken ribs. Three cracked ribs. Cracked sternum. Fractured skull. Fractured wrist. Fractured cheekbone. Fractured jaw. Punctured lung. Heavy contusions to the face and torso. Collapsed trachea. Ruptured spleen. Internal bleeding. Sprained ankle. Left eye swollen shut. Broken nose. Broken ulna. Four broken fingers. Split lip.

            After two and half weeks trapped a pained haze in the Intensive Care Unit, Sam had finally been declared stable enough to be transferred to the ICU Stepdown. It had taken three surgeries and probably a gallon of donated blood, not to mention diligent, ceaseless care from the St. John’s medical staff to stabilize Sam Winchester.

            They kept him supplied with a seemingly unending stream of morphine and several other pain-related drugs whose names he couldn’t quite pronounce, and not just because of the swelling in his jaw. His pain was kept scrupulously dulled, so that what would have been a constant thought-stopping agony was reduced to a manageable background throb. Unless he moved.

            Sam’s injuries were not what troubled him, though.

            He had been told several days after his eyes had finally cracked open that a man had been found dead in the old church with him. Sam’s EKG had spiked audibly after than pronouncement as, for one horrible moment, he had thought it had been Dean. But no. The man the young policewoman described was undoubtedly Crowley.

            That was what had triggered Sam’s memory.

            Somehow, the cure had not worked on Dean. Rather than purifying his blackened soul, it had strengthened him, healed him. Sam was at a lost as to why that was. He had blessed the blood, hadn’t he? He’d injected them exactly on the hour, right? Was it because Dean had the Mark of Cain? Was it because he was a demon in his original meat suit?

            Attempting to puzzle out these unanswerable questions only worsened Sam’s ever-present headache. Of course, not thinking of them was equally difficult.

            He distracted himself by piecing together his last moments of consciousness in the church.

            The demon had somehow cut his ropes. He’d leapt up and grabbed Sam. Beaten him, flung him around the small room. Several pieces of wood splinters had been carefully pulled from Sam’s side and back, he’d been told, so he was reasonably certain he’d broken at least a few floorboards during one of his crash landings.

            He had been losing the fight. Badly. The demon had him. Sam had been so sure his lights were about to go out for the last time.

            Part of him had welcomed that darkness.

            But then the demon had been distracted, lured off of him. By Crowley. Sam vaguely remembered two blurry figures wrestling each other. Crowley had fought to protect Sam, tried to save him. And for that, Crowley had died. For him.

            Sam did not know how to feel about that.

            Crowley was evil – he’d proven that a hundred times over. He was a liar, faithless, a disloyal coward who only looked out for himself and only helped anyone if he was sure to get something good out of the deal. He was a goddamn demon, for crying out loud!

            So why had he sacrificed himself for Sam? Should he be grateful?

            Sam was under no illusions: Crowley could have zapped out of that church in a blink if he’d wanted to. And yes, it was entirely possible that the body now waiting in some morgue or other was empty of demon smoke – that Crowley had escaped and the paramedics who had examined the body just saw the dead New Yorker’s meat.

            Part of Sam actually wanted to believe that.

            Which made the bigger, far angrier part of him cringe.

            But he knew what he had seen. That red flash that had seared his retinas, he knew what that meant. That was Dean killing Crowley, for good.

            Dean.

            That was what truly caused Sam pain, not his broken body. That thought was what stopped him sleeping, and plagued his restless mind with vague, fear-filled nightmares whenever he did manage to drift off.

            He was in this hospital bed because of Dean.

            Dean had tried to kill him.

            Dean had laughed while beating the life out of him.

            Dean had laughed at Sam’s pain.

            And for the first time in his life, Sam Winchester had been truly, deeply, afraid of his brother.

            No amount of telling himself that it wasn’t really Dean, that it was just the demon inside him doing that, eased that deep, aching agony.

            Dean was the demon. He wasn’t just high on some ancient demonic power. He _was_ a demon.

            Somehow Sam had survived these past months without ever truly realising that. All he had been thinking about was who Dean was, how he would never commit any of the atrocities now stacked to his name. He’d thought of how devastating it must be for Dean to be trapped or captured by a demon curse, or whatever he had deluded himself into believing had happened. Dean hated demons as much as Sam did. Maybe more. And they both knew why.

            A demon had killed their mother. And their father. A demon had stolen their lives and forced them to fight this endless, secret war. It was because of a demon that Dean had left Lisa and Ben. A demon had almost destroyed Sam right in front of Dean’s eyes. He had tried so hard to save Sam from Ruby and Azazel. Hell, Dean spent his whole life trying to keep Sam safe.

            And now Dean had become what he hated most. He had become his worst nightmare.

            And Sam had let him. Worse, he had failed to save him. Sam always failed.

            Shame and guilt threatened to engulf him. He fought to breathe, desperate for a full breath, but the bandages binding his damaged ribcage were too tight to allow it. Sam lay in the quiet room, half curled in on himself, tugging on the wires and tubes that held him together, desperately trying to suck air into his lungs and alleviate the crushing weight that was pressing down on him from all sides. Tears ran recklessly over his nose and down his cheeks, desperate to escape belonging to such a loathsome creature.

            Sam had let his brother down yet again, in the worst way possible in their twisted, pathetic lives. He had failed him so completely that Dean didn’t even call him ‘Sammy’ any more.

            A fresh pang twisted his heart like a thorny vine as he realised the absence of the old nickname. It used to annoy him, but since leaving Stanford, the childhood name had been far more than a term of endearment. It had been a constant, unspoken reassurance, a promise that Dean would always be there, protecting him. Watching out for little Sammy.

            Now he was just ‘Sam’. Even though Dean had called him that about as often as he had called him ‘Sammy’, it seemed more formal now. Distant. As though Dean was telling him that he was gone now, truly gone. That all traces of the little boy who had carried Sam out of their burning home had vanished. Dean didn’t call him ‘Sammy’ anymore because as far as he was concerned, Sammy was nothing to do with him. Dean had finally broken free of his ball-and-chain little brother.

            Sam had never felt so achingly alone. He missed his father. His missed the mother he had never gotten to know. He missed Bobby, and Cas, and Jess, and Amelia, and Kevin, and Charlie, and Jodie, and Ellen and Jo. But worse than those bone-deep aching loses was that of Dean’s. Sam missed his brother. He missed the friend he had grown up admiring, the protector who had sacrificed everything and anything to keep him safe, risked everything to keep him breathing. No matter how impossible the situation might seem, no matter what crap they were dealing with or what evil they faced, Sam had always known that as long as he and Dean were together, they had a chance. As long as Dean was alive, Sam would fight. As long as Sam lived, Dean would never leave him.

            Except now.

            Now, Sam was alone and hurt and overwhelmed in a town whose name he couldn’t remember, and he wasn’t even sure what state. Right now, he was afraid, and there was no Dean to force a grin and some lame pun or joke to make him smile, if only a little. No Dean to promise him they’d get through it, somehow, as long as they had each other.

            No Dean, period.

            Sam’s heart ached, putting his other injuries to shame. He missed Dean. His mouth opened in silent sobs and he tasted his tears as they spilled over his lips.

            He just wanted his big brother back.

            What felt like hours later, Sam’s heaving lungs finally stilled to be replaced by the gentle rhythm of deep sleep. For the first time since he’d woken up, he slept soundly, peacefully, as the salt of his tears dried on his thin cheeks.

 

            The following morning, Sam awoke to sunlight streaming through the blinds to his right, filling the grey little room with warm colour. The door to his room stood open, and nurses, doctors, and visitors passed by in various levels of distress. The gentle thrum of hospital life buzzed outside his quiet room.

            Sam pushed himself up slightly on his pillows, wincing as he tried to sit. He felt far better. His private breakdown the previous night seemed to have cleansed him. He was exhausted, utterly spent, but his mind was clear of the despair that had tried to suffocate him the night before. It had been replaced by determination.

            The ordinary demon cure clearly didn’t work on Dean, but nothing in the admittedly limited lore said it couldn’t work on whatever kind of demon he was. Clearly the formula just needed adjusting.

            The procedure would have to be carried out somewhere more secure than a mouldy old ruin of a once-sacred plot of land, that much was obvious to Sam. A few drops of holy water and a quick incantation and the Bunker’s dungeon would work perfectly. And this time, he wouldn’t skimp on the restraints. The collar and chain were far stronger than enchanted cuffs. Sam tried not to picture his brother chained to the bare floor like some abandoned animal.

            That was his real problem: how to find Dean. He couldn’t exactly hope for Dean to just drop out of the sky again. He needed to figure out how to summon him. Surely the Men of Letters had something about summoning high-ranking demons. There must have been someone during the thousands of years who’d needed to summon Cain and had jotted down whatever technique they’d used. There must be something he missed.

            It was simple, really: get out of this hospital, fix the cure, bless the Bunker, summon Dean. Simply a bit of research, just like with every other hunt.

            There was only one problem. He was running out of time. Dean would undoubtedly be furious after his double kidnapping, and with the First Blade in hand, that anger was unlikely to find any kind of constructive outlet. Unless, of course, Dean focused it on moving ahead with his plans to pretty much take over the world.

            Sam covered his eyes with his less injured hand, taking as deep a breath as his bandages would allow. He didn’t have time to look through the thousands of files and notes stacked throughout the Bunker. He’d already searched the most obvious titles.

            He needed answers. Fast.

            But from where?

            If Cas knew how to solve any of these issues, Sam had no doubt he would have told him. Crowley might have had an idea, but he was beyond questioning. Bobby was dead, Kevin was dead. All he had left of him was a stack of Elamite notes, and he didn’t know of anyone old enough to be able to read –

            Sam froze.

            He needed someone very old and very knowledgeable to read those notes and tell him how to save his brother. Cas couldn’t read them, but then, Sam knew someone far older than Castiel. Older even than the archangels.

            A crooked smile pulled at Sam’s split lip.

            He knew someone older than the very Earth itself.


	35. The New God

            “Castiel! CASTIEL!”

            The familiar tingle of an angel’s Grace flowed into Cas. He felt its unique thrumming energy snake its way like lightning through a tree into every pore of his being. The dull aching began to recede. The sharp throbs in his wrist began to lessen. The skull-splitting headache started to ebb away on the waves of reviving Grace. His hand tightened around the rough sack.

            “Castiel?”

            Lungs expanding with a blessed, full breath, Cas cracked his eyes open.

            Hannah’s worried face filled his vision. Her eyebrows were pinched in acute concern, her pale complexion marred by the deep burgundy stain that ran from her hairline to her left temple. Cas frowned. That looked serious.

            “Castiel?” Relief coloured her tone as his eyes opened fully.

            “Ha-nnah,” he croaked, relief flooding through him. His diaphragm spasmed in a vicious fit of coughing, and he curled in on himself as he rode it out. He was so thirsty.

            He felt Hannah’s hands pull him gently into a sitting position against the coldness of a wall once the fit was over. He blinked her into focus, bullying his mind into concentrating. He had been so sure she hadn’t escaped. He didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see another angel.

            The pain of his injuries were gone, thanks to Hannah’s Grace. The pain of his own impending death, however, was, if possible, even more acute than ever.

            “Castiel, can you hear me?”

            Fearing another fit of coughing, Cas nodded.

            “We need to get out of here, now. Everyone’s dead, there’s no one left to fight. We have to evacuate Heaven before it’s too late.”

            “The – souls,” Cas gasped, gingerly testing his throat.

            Hannah seemed to wilt slightly before him. “The souls are lost, Castiel. There’s nothing we can do for them now. Their only chance is that we get out of here – _now!”_

            Cas nodded – she was right, of course. He made to get up, trying to get purchase on the smooth floor with his boots. Hannah reached out to help him to his feet.

            The sound of running footsteps made them both freeze.

            They exchanged a terrified glance. Before he could stop her, Hannah stood to her full height, putting herself between the newcomer and Cas, ready to fight.

            “Get up, Castiel,” she said without turning her head. “You need to get to the Winchester.”

            “Hannah, no –!”

            An angel skidded around the corner at the far end of the corridor. He wore an old-fashioned black suit that seemed at odds with his apparent youth. His black cape-like coat billowed out behind his thin legs. His pale skin was dotted with freckles, made all the more noticeable by his blazing red hair. He slowed to a stop several paces in front of Hannah, his coat whirling around him.

            “Frederick?”

            They both knew Hannah wasn’t clarifying the angel’s name. Hannah tensed as she waited for confirmation that this once-friendly, joking angel was now her enemy.

            “Hannah! Castiel!” Relief broke over his anxious features, his easy smile making him seem impossibly young to be a soldier in this bitter war.

            Hannah’s shoulders sagged in relief. At least one of her brothers was alive and not trying to kill her and Castiel.

            She gestured to Frederick and together they pulled Cas to his feet. He could barely support his own weight. His physical wounds may have been healed, but an angel had no cure for a smouldering Grace. Its burning nothingness was consuming him. Quickly.

            He was amazed he’d lasted so long.

            After looking Cas up and down with a deeply concerned expression, Frederick reached forward and placed the tips of two fingers against Cas’s forehead. Cas tried to jerk away, but he could already feel the singular tingle of Frederick’s Grace trickling into him. The intensity of his internal pyre lessened somewhat, blunted by his brother’s Grace.

            Cas opened his eyes as Frederick withdrew his fingers. He hadn’t just healed some of Castiel’s pain, he had given him some of his own power to sustain him. A lifeline.

            “Thank you,” he said fervently, suddenly wishing he knew the red-haired angel better than he did.

            Frederick’s welcoming smile faded as the corridor shook once more.            “We must get out of here – the other angels have gone to free Metatron!”

            “ _Free_ Metatron?” Hannah looked as despaired as Cas felt.

            Frederick nodded. “We must hurry. I don’t know how or why, but I have a feeling this is all a part of Metatron’s plan. I never thought he’d give up so easily.”

            “You’re right. We’re not safe here. We must get to the door before it’s sealed – forever.”

            Ignoring Cas’s protests, both angels grabbed an arm and together they flew wingless through Heaven’s decimated halls.

            The door had not been left unguarded. Five smiling angels stood ready for battle, angelblades gleaming in their steady hands.

            Gripping the sack more tightly, Cas straightened. As the others released him to conjure their own weapons from their Graces, he reached inside his tan coat and withdrew the angelblade his enemy had used to murder his best friend. It glinted as he gripped it firmly.

            Sam had to be warned. He was the souls’ only hope now.

            Castiel would not fail again.

            Feeling the confidence of the soldier envelope him like a heavy cloak, Castiel stepped forward. The angels guarding the doors shifted into defensive stances, their smiles widening as they saw the dust-covered, pale shell of the once-glorious Castiel advance towards them. The sight held no fear for them. They would dispatch him in moments, his companions in minutes. They did not fear him.

            They should have.

            All weariness forgotten, adrenaline and gifted Grace adding strength to his muscles, Cas ducked the first wild swing of an enemy blade and slashed his own in a wide arc, drawing a thick line of bright crimson through the air. The brilliant light of exposed Grace illuminated the blood as it sailed behind Cas as he brought the angelblade up to stab another angel in the gut.

            The corridor filled with the dying screams of Metatron’s angels.

            Hannah and Frederick moved as swiftly and gracefully as any soldier Cas had ever seen. Together they killed the remaining angels, parrying the furious blows as quickly as thought. Desperation and need guided their every strike. Soon the walls were painted with the blood of their brothers, their broken wings burnt into the cracked floor.

            Cas stood, breathing heavily over the corpses of yet more of his family. Marut, Dumah, Hadraniel, Egrid and Munkar.

            He shook his head jerkily, banishing the useless thought. He looked up to his companions and was relieved to see they had escaped the fight uninjured, though Hannah’s head wound was bleeding freely again.

            After catching her breath, Hannah refocused their attention. “We must draw the spell.”

            She and Frederick set to work tracing the complicated sigil over the telltale power lines on the floor that indicated the presence of the portal. As neither angel nor Cas had had time to snatch a pen during their frantic escape, they used their fallen siblings’ blood to plot out the spell. Cas watched them work as he sagged against the cracked wall, drawing in deep, slow breaths as he struggled to control the fresh waves of pain from each exhausted muscle. He was running out of time.

            As he watched Frederick draw the final circular element of the spell, he felt his knees buckle and he slid down into a panting heap on the floor. Hannah shot him a concerned look, but he gestured vaguely at her to continue the spell.

            Just as Hannah was starting the final component – the vertical line joining two of the furthermost circles – a wheezing chuckle broke the near silence. A shiver ran up Cas’s spine. He carefully, subtly, hid the faded sack behind him as he turned his head.

            Metatron stood before them, mere feet away and laughing.

            “Well, well, well.” He chortled, surveying the last free angels in Heaven. “How did I know I’d find you here?”

            Hannah and Frederick sprang to their feet, angleblades flicking to their hands with silvery glints. Hannah took a step forward to stand beside Cas, shifting infinitesimally into a defensive stance.

            “Metatron,” Cas growled as he pulled himself to his feet. It was not as graceful a movement as he’d hoped.

            The old scribe shook his head, his wicked grin widening with pleasure. He raised a finger and jerked it from side to side as he spoke. “Metatron? My dear Castiel, you’re a little behind the times.” He straightened to his full height, his face serious as death as he spoke again. “My name is X.”

            Cas frowned in confusion. Was this a reference to the X-Men comics? Or the ancient Roman numeral?

            Metatron’s shoulders slumped at this less than fearful reaction. “Oh, come on,” he moaned, “is it too much to ask for a bit of boot-quaking? For dad’s sake, Castiel, do you know how many times I’ve imagined this moment? You never just gawped at me like one of your hairless apes!”

            “I – what?”

            Metatron rolled his eyes and irritably flicked a finger at Frederick, who had been edging towards him with his blade held at the ready. Both Cas and Hannah found themselves pinned to the walls in the same moment.

            “Whatever. But honestly, Castiel, did you really think I’d let you escape? When more than half the heavenly host is behind me?”

            “I wasn’t trying to esc –”

            “Oh, don’t deny it. No one likes a liar.”

            Hannah was struggling against her invisible bonds, her teeth gritted in barely concealed fury. “How did you do it?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “How did you dupe all those angels into following you? Into betraying their brothers, their sisters!”

            Metatron regarded her with raised eyebrows. “I’m offended you even ask me that!” he exclaimed in a mock-offended tone. “But.” He smiled. “You do raise an interesting point.”

            Cas felt the pressure pinning him to the wall relax slightly as Metatron shifted his weight and beamed at them, with the air of one about to indulge in their favourite story.

            “When you left me to rot in that dad-forsaken cell, you forgot one vitally important thing: I am Metatron. Or I was.” He chuckled again.

            “You see, Castiel,” he sneered, “your little trick with the microphone may have guilted the angels into rallying behind you again, but within weeks of my imprisonment, they had already started crawling back to me. You see, they believe in what I’m trying to do. They believe in a new, supreme Heaven. They believe in _me_.

            “First it was just Sariel and Amitiel, and a few others. They came to me like lepers to the Messiah, skulking out of the shadows to bathe in my glorious light.” Metatron’s smile had turned sickeningly sweet. “It was just as I said, just as I knew it would be: they didn’t care how I purified Heaven. They just knew it needed to be done. And, of course, they wanted to be on the side that survived the cleanse.”

            “Is that what you call slaughtering your siblings? A _cleanse?”_ Hannah’s eyes blazed with a fiery rage, and suddenly Cas felt quite fortunate she was on his side.

            “It’s what I call exterminating the filth that have desecrated the former house of God for thousands of years!” Metatron hissed. “This” – he gestured grandly to the cracked walls and rubble-strewn hallway – “was meant to be the high seat of power in our universe! The single most glorious, most inspiring configuration to evolve out of the ethereal planes! Angels were always meant to hold the power. But then God created those mud-rats.”

            “You sound like Lucifer,” Frederick spat.

            “Well, he had it right! The humans are _pathetic_ , amoral, _stinking_ piles of excrement! Lucifer’s only problem was he didn’t know how to work a crowd. He could’ve started what I’m about to finish in the Garden if he’d known how to start a decent rebellion.” His voice darkened menacingly. “But then, ol’ Luci didn’t know half the things I know.”

            “What are you talking about? He was an archangel!”

            “AND I WAS THE SCRIBE OF GOD!” Metatron roared. Dust trickled down from the ceiling with the force of his rage.

            “I sat there listening to that old crock spout off all the failsafes and loopholes to this ‘magnificent creation’ of his. I wrote it all down on slabs of rock so that humans – pathetic, _defenceless_ humans – could have a shadow of a chance if the Leviathans or the demons or the angels got too powerful! The _angels!_ Our own father sold us down the river for those ungrateful apes! He told me everything that day. _Everything!_ How to seal the gates of Heaven – that was barely my opening act.”

            Castiel scowled, anger heating his voice. “Our father gave the humans a chance, so their heroes could stand and fight against enemies like you. You’re the villain here, Metatron. Not God. You used the Angel Tablet against your own kind and against humanity.”

            Metatron scoffed. “Heroes? What, like your Winchesters? Let’s review, shall we? One freed the devil, got addicted to demon blood, killed how many innocents as he was tromping around with no soul? And the other one couldn’t survive a few measly decades in Hell and so kick-started the apocalypse, caused untold damage to protect his oh-so-precious little brother, and now, oh yes, that’s right, is one of the most prolific demons in history! Well,” Metatron added, his voice cooling as he glanced at Cas from under his bushy eyebrows. “He _was.”_

            Cas frowned. “What are you talking about?”

            The irritating, wheezing chuckle filled the corridor once more. “Didn’t you hear? I sent Maalik after him. And you know Maalik. He never fails.”

            Cas’s stomach plummeted so far down he was sure some farmer would discover it on Earth. Maalik? He was no better than a demon himself. But if it was true, if he had caught Dean ...

            “You’re wrong. Winchesters aren’t so easy to kill.” His voice sounded far more confident that he felt.

            “Hahahaha! Sure, you stick to your denial, Castiel. I’m sure that’ll help.”

            Cas struggled futilely against the invisible bonds restraining him. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to punch someone so badly. The loose handle of the sack flopped onto the floor by his shoe.

            “You won’t get away with this, Metatron,” Hannah said coolly. Her blazing eyes were locked on Metatron’s with such intensity Cas wondered if she was trying to set him on fire with her Grace.

            Metatron laughed, taking a gloating step towards her. “‘Won’t get away with it’?” he mocked, mimicking her voice. “What am I, a Bond villain? I already have ‘gotten away with it’ – the hero always does. The only angels in Heaven, with the exception of you three pests, are loyal to _me_.” He threw his arms wide. “They broke me out of Heaven’s jail willingly, because they want me to be the new god! To be X. I’ve gained control of the most extensive collection of souls in the known universe! And this is just phase two!”

            “Then what’s phase three?” Frederick asked, sounding almost scared to hear the answer.

            “Phase three.” Metatron chuckled darkly. “Is to kill them all.”

            In the stunned silence that followed, Castiel carefully shifted his foot, tucking the sack safely behind his legs. Metatron gazed from captive angel to captive angel, clearly enjoying the shocking effect of his words.

            “You see, the problem with angels is they just want to be led. Like sheep. They’ll give anything not to think for themselves. And when God was around, that was fine! No one wavered, till the humans evolved. But since then they’ve scuttled from one master to another. Take the last few years for example! God to Michael to Raphael to Castiel to Bartholomew to me to Castiel again. They’re the single most disloyal, fickle, predictable creatures ever to be created!”

            “You speak as though you aren’t one of us,” Frederick accused.

            “Oh, my dear Freddie.” Metatron chortled. He paused and his face turned serious once more. “I’m not.”

            Cas exchanged a worried glance with Hannah as Frederick gulped uncomfortably. After leaving a suitably dramatic pause, Metatron turned pompously to Castiel and continued.

            “Tell me, Castiel. How many angels have been mysteriously murdered these past months? Eighty? A hundred? More?”

            “There’s nothing mysterious about it,” Cas spat. “You ordered it done and those” – he bit back an insult – “angels who follow you murdered their own brothers and sisters and stole their Graces!”

            “Yep!” Metatron confirmed cheerily. “And then all the others turned against you.” His smile was infuriating. “But they didn’t steal the Graces for themselves,” he added menacingly.

            Metatron straightened, and allowed his pupils to glow a brilliant blue. The corridor was filled with light as he unfurled his enormous, healthy wings. They were far larger and looked stronger than any angel wings Castiel had ever seen – grander even than Michael or Lucifer’s. His wingspan far exceeded the width of the corridor, but he made a show of extending them as far as the limited space would allow.

            The light shining from within the swampy green eyes was growing brighter and more intense with every passing second, changing from the usual bright, electric blue to a pure, creamy white. It reached such a potency that Castiel had to avert his eyes, squeezing them shut and turning his head away as the force of light hit him like a physical blow.

            Castiel remembered his father. He had never met God personally, but he had heard the archangel’s accounts as they described their father to the young, eager, listening angels, back before even the Garden had been formed. He remembered Gabriel trying to find the then uninvented words to describe the singular experience of being bathed in the all-consuming, glorious light of God creating, of a light so fierce in intensity that even angels could not bear to look upon it.

            This searing light warming Castiel’s face from three feet away was the only experience in his millennia in this universe that came close to his brother’s description of true godly power.

            Metatron was no angel.

            He was a god.

            He was _the_ god.


	36. Home

            Sam pushed the door to the Bunker open and all but collapsed inside. He pushed the door closed with a foot and locked it without standing up. His arm flopped to his side. He concentrated on taking even breaths.

            Breaking out of the hospital had not been as easy as he had hoped. Despite waiting an extra week and being a quick healer, he knew he was in no fit state to be exerting himself. Like by walking more than four steps at a time.

            Luckily, the infamous Winchester stubbornness had kicked in once he’d hobbled out of his room. His legs, after all, worked fine, provided he didn’t put too much weight on his still-tender ankle. Fortunately, someone had abandoned a wheelchair halfway down the adjoining corridor. It sat there, ready for takeoff, ripe for the stealing. Or rather, borrowing. Once he’d found the Camaro he’d had moved to St. John’s parking lot, a mixture of frequent breathing breaks and downright dog-headedness saw Sam safely back to the Bunker.

            Feeling his breath coming more easily into his aching chest, Sam used the door’s handle to heave himself to his feet. Now came the real challenge: stairs.

            Carefully, slowly, Sam eased himself down each miniature cliff, clinging tightly enough to the railing that his bruised knuckles turned white. He waited a moment with both feet on each step before continuing his descent to the next one, the constant mantra of _don’t fall down, don’t fall down, seriously, do not fall down_ , playing on a loop in his head. After several intense minutes, he finally had both feet firmly on level ground.

            As he paused to catch his breath and allow his tense torso to relax somewhat, he looked around at the Bunker’s atrium. It was exactly as he’d left it, all those months ago. The empty whiskey glass he’d forgotten to put away still sat like a squat glass toad beside the softly glowing desk lamp. The whiskey bottle lay on its side under the desk, half hidden in its shadow. The books lining the hall looked the same as they had the day he and Dean had first discovered this hunter’s haven. Sam wondered idly if Magnus had spelled the Bunker to repel dust.

            Sam walked slowly through the corridors until he reached Dean’s closed door. He hadn’t been in his brother’s room since the day he had lain his cold corpse on his bed. Which also happened to be the day his brother came back to life as a demon and left him.

            God, his life was weird.

            Steeling himself, Sam opened the door and flicked on the lights. It was as regimented and neat as you would expect of a marine’s son. Of a soldier. The bedclothes were perfectly tucked in, the guns uniformly level on the wall. Apart from a small pile of books and John’s journal on the desk, there wasn’t a speck of clutter.

            Sam found himself by the desk, his hand reaching for the small photo of his mother holding a four-year-old Dean without conscious direction. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at the two smiling faces. As ever, Sam drank in the image of his mother. She was so beautiful. Her smile reminded him of Dean’s, but he saw himself in the shape of her eyes. Then his eyes slid to his brother.

            The faded picture of the smiling young boy sent a pang through Sam’s heart. He could probably count on his fingers how many times he’d seen Dean smile like that. A true, genuine smile that echoed the joy within. He could imagine his dad taking this picture, listening to Dean giggle. Sam thought for a moment. The smile faded from his lips. He could only think of two occasions in the last ten years on which Dean had truly laughed.

            He returned the picture to its place by the lamp and reached for the top drawer. As he did so, a small triangle of creamy paper sticking out of one of the books caught his eye. Straightening, he opened the book and found a small collection of old printed photos. He blinked in surprise. He had never seen these.

            The first was a photo of his father, taken in some bar or other. John was leaning slightly away from the camera, one hand half-raised to discourage the photographer. A pint of beer was in his other hand, and he was grinning; his eyes, crinkled with the smile, were twinkling with mirth. Sam flipped the picture over. There was no date on the back.

            The next was a shot of himself and Bobby, each with a bottle of El Sol in hand, both smiling patiently at the camera. The unexpected sight of his old friend sent a pang of longing through Sam. Bobby looked as he always had: his green baseball cap, scuffed and slightly ripped, sitting at a slight angle on his head; his usual waist jacket hanging over a plaid shirt and denims. Sam stared at the image for a long moment before moving on to the next one, wondering what Bobby would say if he were there with Sam in the biggest known library of all things supernatural. ‘Idjit’ would probably feature.

            The next photo was of himself and Dean at Bobby’s kitchen table, laughing over some long forgotten joke. Dean’s head was bowed, half-looking at the camera, fiddling with the empty beer bottle held between his hands. Sam’s arm lay draped over the back of his chair, the other holding the bottle halfway to his lips. It was such an ordinary picture. Two brothers sharing a beer and a laugh. You’d never know by looking at this photograph that these two brothers spent their days killing mythical monsters. Sam’s eyes turned back to his brother’s. God, he looked so _young_. They both did. Had Sam’s hair always been that ... floppy?

            Chuckling slightly, Sam shuffled on to the next and last picture. It was of Dean, leaning against the hood of the Impala, staring off across the lake to his right. Sam remembered taking this, years ago between hunts. They had just taken care of a vengeful spirit, and he could just make out the cut over Dean’s left eye where he’d been thrown against a cabinet. Otherwise he looked perfectly healthy. Sam remembered that two nights later, Dean was in intensive care with a bad concussion and a breathing tube stuck down his throat. Courtesy of Alistair.

            But right then, in that captured moment of time, Dean hadn’t been in pain. He hadn’t known he had broken the first seal. He was simply enjoying the sight of some lake after a hunt, leaning on the car he loved. As Sam’s eyes turned to the old car, he felt another painful twinge. That poor car. Right now it barely looked like itself, twisted beyond recognition. Just like Dean, really.

            Remembering why had come back here, Sam returned the photos to their hiding place. He opened the top drawer of the desk, pulled out one of the many bottles of pills – where did Dean get these anyway? – and read the label. Pain meds. Just what he needed.

            He used the sink by the door and, after checking the dosage, popped two of the small capsules into his mouth and swallowed them with a handful of cold, clear water.

            Now. To work.

 

            It only took him an hour to find all he would need for the summons. He toyed with the idea of igniting the spell in the dungeon, but in the end he decided that really wasn’t the message he wanted to send to someone who could probably kill him with just a thought.

            God, this was a bad idea. But it was also his only idea, which, under the circumstances, made it a good idea.

            Ignoring his misgivings, Sam sprinkled the final ingredient into the wide bowl. He struck a match and held it over the bowl as he spoke the old incantation. On the final word, he let the match fall into the golden-brown powders and jerked back slightly as it _woosh_ ed up in a brief, bluish flame. Sam glanced to the paper bag of reheated zucchini fries on the table.

            This was a _very_ bad idea.

            “Well, well.”

            Sam turned to face the speaker, taking an involuntary gulp of air.

            “Sam Winchester. I was wondering if you would call.”


	37. Deals and Death

            Sam swallowed hard, trying to control his nerves. “Um, hi,” he said, rather lamely.

            Death regarded him with those unnervingly discerning eyes, eyes that had seen more grief and joy than Sam could ever fathom. He stood tall in his old fashioned black suit, one hand curled over the pommel of his cane. He looked exactly the same as the last time Sam had seen him, right down to the high forehead, sharp cheekbones and sharper gaze. Sam hoped the fondness he remembered was still there, too.

            “Hello,” Death greeted, the shadow of a smile touching his lips.

            Sam gulped once more, then gestured with his unslung arm to the chair beside the paper bag of takeout. “Would you like seat? I got you some zucchini fries. They’re good.”

            Death watched Sam for another moment before his expression abruptly changed to polite interest and he pulled the chair out and settled himself upon it. “Thank you.”

            Sam sat down opposite, waiting for Death to eat a few of the fries before starting.

            “You know, during my entire existence,” Death said in between bites, “I believe I have only ever been summoned six times. Three of them have been in the last decade.” His hawk-like gaze turned up from the bag to bore into Sam. “The last two have been by Winchesters.”

            Sam shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to respond. Luckily, Death spoke again.

            “You’ve proven to be a very daring young man, Sam.”

            “... Thank you,” Sam said uncertainly, trying not to make it sound like a question.

            Death’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not entirely sure I meant that as a compliment.”

            He resumed his snack, allowing silence to fill the room. When he had eaten the last sliver of zucchini and licked his fingers clean, Death shifted in his seat, crossing his legs and looked up at Sam expectantly.

            “Now then, Mr. Winchester. I trust you’ve summoned me for good reason. I take it things haven’t been easy for you since last we met.” Death glanced to Sam’s cut face and slung arm.

            “No, they, uh, haven’t.” Sam wondered if he should apologise for refusing Death’s offer in that cottage. He opened his mouth to say something, but Death’s upraised hand stopped him.

            “You needn’t apologise, Sam. Few people are granted a choice in death, and those who are rarely make the right one. Your reasons, however, were noble, and I harbour no ill will towards you as a result.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Your brother is a determined fellow, especially when it comes to your wellbeing.”

            Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

            “I assume he’s the reason you’ve summoned me.”

            Sam watched Death’s expression carefully before answering, but the Horseman gave nothing away. “Yes.”

            “You want me to stop him.”

            “... Yes,” Sam said warily.

            “But not to kill him.”

            “No! No, not to kill him. I just ... I wanted to ask you some things. I can stop him, I just need to know ho –”

            “Can you?” Death cut across him. Sam frowned. “Can you stop him?”

            Sam’s frown deepened. “Yes.”

            “You’re sure of that?”

            “Yes,” Sam repeated, more firmly.

            “And how do you propose to do that? Dean has the same affliction as Cain, and I’m sure you know of his long history.”

            “You know Cain?”

            “I do. Answer the question, Sam.”

            “I ... That’s what I need your help with. We found a demon cure, and I tried it on Dean, but it didn’t work. I don’t know why. I just ... I just need to know how to cure him.”

            Death leaned back slightly. “What makes you think there is a cure?”

            Sam blinked. “Well ... There must be one.”

            “Why must there be one?”

            “Because Dean ... Dean’s a demon, and if you can cure a demon then why couldn’t you cure him?”

            “Don’t you think that same thought occurred to Cain?”

            That gave Sam pause.

            “Maybe he didn’t want to be cured.”

            Death laughed, his wide smile splitting his face as his laughter echoed around the hall. “I can assure you, Sam, Cain wanted to be cured. If he hadn’t, then he would never have been cursed as he was, now, would he?”

            “I suppose not.”

            As the echoes of Death’s laughter faded into silence, Death leaned forward, leaning his forearms on the smooth table. “You want my help in curing your brother, but what makes you think that I would, firstly, have any idea how to accomplish that, or, secondly, would want to help you?”

            Sam shifted his weight carefully so as not to aggravate his sore ribs. “I don’t know if you know the cure: I hope you do. And I’ve got notes written in Elamite that might help, but I can’t read them. I assume you can.” Death inclined his head slightly. “As to why you should help me, well, it’s the right thing to do.”

            “Is it now? Why? Because you want it done? Because you want your brother back? You think that is an important enough reason to bother Death himself? I am rather busy, you know.”

            “I know you are. And no, it’s not right just because I want it done. And it’s not right just because Dean would hate himself right now if he could think straight. It’s the right thing to do because Dean has killed hundreds of people, created new demons and Knights of Hell, and because he’s planning to take over Heaven and the Veil. And he has to be stopped.”

            “So why not just kill him?”

            “Because he’s my brother!” Sam said, more angrily than he had intended. “Look,” he said, calming his tone, “you know what Dean went through to convince you to save my soul from the Pit. You know what he did to bring me back from the brink last time you saw me. Well, that’s nothing compared to what _I_ will do to bring him back from the brink.”

            “I’ve noticed: you’ve sent a lot of souls my way, Sam Winchester.”

            Sam bristled, not liking the reminder. “I did what I had to do.”

            “You know Adolf Hitler said the same thing?”

            “What?”

            “Well, not to me,” Death elaborated, “I didn’t meet the man myself, but to his Reaper.”

            “Are you saying I’m as bad as Hitler?”

            “No, Sam,” he said, his tone suddenly serious and solemn. “You share very little with that man. But,” he continued, “believing actions are justified because you had to do them is one of few traits shared by such men as Adolf.”

            Sam looked down at his hands, picking distractedly at a scab.

            “Even if I knew how to kill him,” he said at last, choosing each word carefully, “I could never do it.” His gaze rose to meet Death’s. “No matter what he’s done, no matter how many people he’s killed, he’s still my brother. My family. And I would rather die than see him dead.”

            The corner of Death’s mouth twitched slightly. He held Sam’s gaze for a long moment, and Sam was sure Death was looking into his very soul.

            “Good answer, my boy.”

            Sam’s shoulders relaxed. “You’ll help me then?” he asked hopefully.

            Death bowed his head in a solemn nod. “I will. But for a price.”

            Sam’s heart sank. “What price?”

            Death leant back in his chair again, flicking a piece of fluff off his trouser leg. “Heaven has been sealed for two years now,” he began, idly inspecting his cane. “Every soul that has died in that time is currently trapped in the Veil.”

            “Yeah,” Sam whispered, thinking of Kevin. “I know.”

            “But you do not know the gravity of it, Sam,” Death returned sternly. “Billions of souls are trapped in a plane that was only ever intended to house a few million at most, and it has only ever approached that limit three times in human history. The Veil is utterly packed, and yet every second, more die and are forced into it. With Heaven sealed, there is nothing I, nor my Reapers, can do to help them, and despite my reputation among the humans, I do not revel in the pain of others, particularly those in my charge. Several of my Reapers have been unable to bear the souls’ pain. Many of them have taken their own lives. Many more have been slaughtered by your brother and his followers.”

            Death leant forward, fixing Sam with his rapture gaze.

            “I need you, Sam Winchester, to vow to me, on your brother’s soul, that you will reopen Heaven and restore the souls to their eternal homes.”

            Sam’s eyes widened of their own accord. Reopen Heaven? How in the hell was he supposed to manage that? They’d been trying to unseal it for a year and the closest they’d come was discovering the portal! He could hardly smuggle billions of souls through what must be like the eye of a needle. Not to mention the fact that he had no idea how to reach the Veil. Apart from taking out vengeful spirits and guide a séance, he didn’t even know how to communicate with transient souls.

            “I ... have no idea how to even attempt to accomplish that.”

            “Well,” Death said, his tone perfectly polite but carrying the finality of, well, death. “Then you must either find a way, or save your brother without my aid.”

            Knowing he would spend a lot of time wishing he hadn’t said what he was about to voice, Sam replied. “I swear. I will do everything in my power to free Heaven.”

            “On your brother’s soul,” Death corrected firmly. “You must swear to me on your brother’s soul.”

            Sam gulped. “I swear.”

            “Knowing that if you have not freed Heaven within, let’s say, eighteen months, I will personally come and take your brother myself?”

            “What! That’s not fair – I don’t even know if you can help me save Dean!”

            Death’s eyebrows raised warningly. “I assure you, Mr. Winchester. I can.”

            “Well – then –”

            “Do I have your word, Sam Winchester?”

            Sam heaved a sigh big enough to send a shooting pain through his chest. Was he a magnet for impossible jobs, or was it just a coincidence? If he couldn’t figure out how to restore Heaven – which was sealed with an irreversible spell if Crowley was to be believed – in just a year and a half, then Dean was dead. For good.

            Yet if he didn’t agree to this bargain, Dean would spend the rest of his life – his immortal life, Sam suddenly realised – alone and living as his worst nightmare. Not to mention Sam could never live with himself if he failed Dean in this. His brother had never needed him more.

            Reluctantly, Sam nodded. “I vow on Dean’s soul, I will get the lost souls into Heaven.”

            Death smiled and opened his mouth to respond. Sam cut him off.

            “But. In exchange, you need to tell me exactly how to cure Dean of being a demon – and the Mark of Cain. And,” he added, “I need you to make a new Grace for Castiel. And if you want Heaven opened anytime soon, you’d better heal me. I can’t exactly save Dean when I can barely walk straight, and there’s no way I’m fixing Heaven before my brother.”

            Death’s eyebrows were raised dangerously high, and the smallest of smiles curved the edges of his mouth. He had never looked so terrifying. This expression, Sam suddenly realised, was probably the origin of the phrase “if looks could kill”.

            “Not many people have ever spoken to me in such a rude and expectant manner,” Death said conversationally, but his voice was deadly underneath the calm surface. “And lived.” he added.

            Sam gulped, but held his gaze.

            “I should warn you, Sam, just because I am somewhat fascinated by you and your brother, and just because I have been impressed by the good you have done, it would be most ... _unwise_ to presume that apparent fondness protects you. I am a being as old as the universe itself; to me, you are a fleeting spark of, currently arrogant, dust. You would do well to remember that.”

            Swallowing hard, Sam looked down to his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He had crossed a line, and he knew it. Just because Death needed him didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else, a more polite someone else, he could employ.

            “I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the table.

            “Apology accepted. As are your terms, although,” he added, raising a long slender finger to underscore his next words, “to bind you to your word I shall hold your brother’s soul as collateral. I will tell you how to bind the Mark’s power only, not remove it. When you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, and the souls are returned, I shall come to your brother and free him of the brand.” Death fixed Sam with serious eyes and his tone became one of utter finality. “That is my amendment; I shall hear no argument on the matter.”

            Sam’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded. It would be foolish to push his luck much further.

            “As for your angel friend’s Grace, if you are certain you want the angel who released the Leviathans and wreaked havoc during his short time as god to be empowered once again, I can tell you how such a thing can be done. Though, again, I warn you the outcome is not guaranteed. No human has ever attempted to restore an angel’s Grace.”

            Nodding, Sam looked back up to the old Horseman’s face. “Thank you. But if you don’t remove the Mark, is it even possible to cure Dean?”

            “It is possible. And he is very fortunate; it is a cure that is forever lost to Cain himself.”

            “But you can help me cure him?”

            “I can tell you how it is done, yes. But understand this, Sam Winchester.” Death said, leaning closer over the table once more. “Even with the knowledge I will grant you, and even if the cure goes according to plan, there is no guarantee that Dean will survive the process, that who he is will endure it. It has never been done before, and the theory suggests a truly unpleasant experience. There is no way to know whether or not Dean is strong enough to –”

            “He is,” Sam interjected, his voice certain.

            “There is no way to know whether or not Dean is strong enough,” Death repeated pointedly, “to survive not only the cure itself, but its aftermath.”

            “What aftermath?”

            “For the cure to be complete, for Dean to be truly human again, he must face himself. And from what I know of your brother, that will be as difficult a task as any he has faced.”

            Sam nodded, but inwardly ignored the warning. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. First they had to de-demonify Dean’s soul. One problem at a time.

            “I understand.” He glanced to his left and reached out to pull Kevin’s Elamite translations towards himself. “These,” he continued, holding the pages as though they were made of precious glass, “are notes made from the Angel Tablet by the last prophet, Kevin –”

            “Kevin Tran,” Death finished. Sam glanced up to him. “He was a nice boy,” Death said by way of an explanation.

            “Well, uh,” Sam continued, “if there is a way to reverse Metatron’s spell, it’ll be in here.” He looked up to meet Death’s gaze. “Can you read proto-Elamite kineaphorm?”

            Death nodded once. “I can.”

            Sam held the pages out to him with his good arm, and Death took them gently. He ran his gaze over each of the pages in turn, his eyebrows rising slightly at what he read.

            “Well now,” he said at last. “That’s the most interesting read I’ve had in centuries.”

            “Does it help us?”

            Death let the pages fall onto the dark wood of the tabletop and looked up at Sam with the air of someone about to comment on the loveliness of the day. “As a matter of fact, they do.”

            “But first,” Death said, getting to his feet with a hand on his cane. “We have work to do.”

            Death sauntered calmly around the table and gestured for Sam to stand. He hastened to obey, eliciting a ripple of sharp pain from his torso and shoulder as he did so. Once he was on his feet, Death raised one hand from the silver handle of his cane.

            “ _You_ have work to do.”

            So gently Sam barely felt the pressure of it, Death touched two fingers of his right hand to Sam’s forehead. For a split second, all Sam felt was the tiny pressure of the Horseman’s fingertips. Then, suddenly, an explosion seemed to punch itself into Sam’s brain from the gentle pressure, making his head jerk reflexively away and a shocked, pained gasp escape his lungs.

            Then, just as abruptly, everything went black.


	38. Angel vs God

            Hannah roared with a rage that rivalled an archangel’s. Her usually bright eyes burned with a ferocity the like of which Castiel had only ever witnessed in the eyes of his comrades as they laid siege to Hell itself. Her own light illuminated her pupils with a brilliant clear blue that, although nothing compared to the creamy yellow-white of Metatron’s blaze, seemed to cut through the old scribe’s glow like a laser through fog.

            Metatron had made another, stupid, mistake.

            As he showed off his godlike luminescence, Cas felt the pressure pinning him to the wall lessen. Judging by what happened next, he suspected the same was true of Hannah and Frederick’s restraints.

            Hannah flew forward with impossible speed, angelblade held tightly in her bloodied fist. At almost the same instant, Frederick charged towards Metatron from the side, unleashing his own howl of fury as his blade flashed silver-white.

            Metatron’s attention was focused on burning his smug smile into Castiel’s very essence, and so wasted a crucial few seconds turning to face the sudden battle cries as two righteous angels, and their blades, thudded into him.

            Metatron’s ethereal light was abruptly extinguished, replaced by a gasping cry of pain as the angelblades found their marks. Frederick’s jutted in below Metatron’s borrowed ribs, angled up to pierce the stolen heart. Hannah’s aim was truer still: her red-stained weapon sank to the hilt in the very centre of Metatron’s chest.

            The pressure imprisoning Cas abruptly vanished and he sagged on his feet. He bent down and snatched up the precious sack, but before he could straighten up fully, a concussion of power ripped through the air, punching its way out from Metatron and slamming Cas against the wall as Frederick and Hannah were thrown backwards.

            Metatron straightened, releasing a great bellow of rage like a wounded boar, and another vicious shockwave pounded through the air. Cas’s head struck the hard wall yet again and he thought he felt something crack. Hannah and Frederick hit the ground with harmonious thuds.

            Hatred blackening his features like a storm cloud, Metatron took a measured step towards the fallen angels, the angelblades glinting in his chest as he moved.

            “Nice trick,” he almost whispered, venom dripping from every syllable. “It’s a pity ...” he drawled, casually unsheathing Hannah’s blade from his sternum, “that angelblades don’t kill GODS!” The final word was an unearthly roar that seemed to contain a thousand furious voices all screaming in unison. Metatron lunged forward, blood dripping from the tip of the angelblade that was heading right for Hannah’s heart.

            “NO!” Cas bellowed, pushing off from the wall in a desperate attempt to block the weapon’s path.

            He was too late.

            Frederick got there first.

            One of the purest lights Castiel had ever seen filled the corridor, the force of it almost drowning out the tiny sound of Frederick’s agonized gasp. Almost.

            Metatron had driven the angelblade directly through the centre of Frederick’s chest, burying the razor-sharp blade to the hilt. Frederick’s eyes were open wide in shock and pain and fear as his life force exploded out from him.

            As quickly as it had started, Frederick’s last light abruptly ceased. His empty vessel flopped limply to the ground, over Hannah’s legs. His broken wings were scorched across the corridor, and over Hannah’s disbelieving face. Metatron pulled the blade out with a sickeningly scratching _squelch_ and stepped forward over his brother’s body, his weapon raised to strike again.

            Adrenaline spiked with rage thundered through Castiel. He would not watch another friend die. Not another one. He would not allow it.

            With a fluidity alien to such a weakened, dying body, Cas strode forward, his coat billowing out behind him. Two steps and he was right behind the fool god, his fist already flying through the air with all the force he could muster.

            The sack Cas had smuggled from the office room slammed into Metatron’s balding head with enough force to crack the skull. Metatron didn’t so much as flinch. The contents of the sack clanked together as it fell to Cas’s side, but he was already moving again, faster than he’d moved in months. With one swift yank, he pulled the angelblade from Metatron’s side and less than a heartbeat later, it was sailing through the air into Hannah’s outstretched hand, just as Metatron turned his fury on Cas.

            The blade pierced Cas’s skin just to the left of Jimmy Novak’s belly button. It penetrated through his intestines on an upward trajectory, through the lower section of his stomach and connecting with the inside of the back of his ribcage, cracking the lowest rib along its length.

            He had no air to voice the pain of it. Instead, a thin gasp was sucked through his lips, just like the one Frederick had uttered before he died, just as Dean must have gasped. The pain was simply too big to be embodied in a scream. It was stilling his lungs, buckling his knees, blurring his vision. He felt himself fall backwards, and the blade retreated the way it had come. The pain spiked and lightninged through him, as though angry its source had left it.

            Cas didn’t feel the impact as his ruined body hit the cold, rubble-strewn floor. He blinked slowly, pulling a shallow breath into his numbing lungs. Darkness crept into his vision, darkening the edges of the cracked ceiling above him.

            Metatron loomed over him, that infuriatingly smug smile contorting his face. Red-tinged silver flashed in his hand as he twirled something around and around in his fingers. It took Cas a few moments to understand what it was. An angelblade, of course. That’s what had killed Dean. If not for Metatron and his angelblade, Dean would be alive and human. And now Sam was risking his life to try and bring Dean back. If that was even possible. Cas still didn’t think the cure would work, but nothing would stop Sam. He would never give up.

            Metatron and the twinkling silver weapon floated closer.

            Neither would Cas.

            Summoning every ounce of reserved strength, Cas shuffled backward, pulling himself away from the threat on his elbows. As he did, Hannah sprung up beside him, standing between Castiel and Metatron.

            “Cas?” she called to him, her eyes fixed on Metatron’s. “Finish the spell.”

            Metatron scoffed. “How noble,” he sneered. “Trying to buy him a few extra seconds of life, huh, Hannah?” The corners of his mouth turned down in mock sorrow. “Like it’s gonna make a difference!”

            With that, he lunged forwards.

            Castiel saw Hannah’s attempt at defence end in a too-abrupt jerk. A small prism of silver had appeared in the centre of her lower back. For a moment that contained an excruciating lifetime, Cas stared as a drop of burgundy blood dripped from it onto the floor. Then the moment was torn apart as Hannah’s arms and head were flung backwards and light erupted from her, reducing her to a shadowy silhouette.

            “NO! _HANNAH!”_

            Her light faded. Metatron shoved her corpse to the side, withdrawing his weapon as he discarded her as though she meant nothing. Hannah fell on her side, one arm outstretched as though reaching for Cas. Her lifeless eyes stared unseeingly ahead. The light was gone from them. Gone from her.

            Cas stared in disgust as Metatron stepped forward. Hatred rippled through him, briefly eclipsing the pain. Metatron had taken everything from him now. Heaven. His brothers. His sisters. Frederick. Hannah. Dean. Sam. Foolish though he knew it was, futile though he knew it would be, Castiel swore to his very heart that he would kill the pompous, egotistical bastard who had murdered so many people he loved.

            “Such a foolish gesture,” Metatron drawled in mock pity. “Nobel, sure. But foolish. And, ultimately ...” He closed the gap separating them in one final stride. Cas tried to shift backwards, his hands scrambling for a weapon that wasn’t there. There was nowhere to go. The spell was smudged and distorted by Frederick’s body and Cas’s frantic attempts to escape. He stilled, glaring at Metatron, wishing looks could kill. Metatron flicked the angelblade once before firmly grasping it in a hand gloved with blood.

            “Useless.”


	39. Reunited

            Dean felt utterly disgusting. He could feel the hideous taint of human blood still clinging on inside him like some poisonous insect that had burrowed through his skin and into his bloodstream. He was almost tempted to rake his nails – or the First Blade – along his forearms to try and get the awful, cloying feeling out. Almost.

            The anger pumping faster than his heart kept his mind clear and his muscles tensed. His healed knuckles were white around the hilt of the First Blade. He could hear it inside his mind, softly calling for blood, like a lover’s whisper in the dark. So alluring. So tempting. He knew holding the Blade was all that was stopping his hands from trembling. Its power steadied him, anchored him. It allowed him to think.

            His weeks of torture at Maalik’s mercy had been unpleasant to say the least. He had felt a weakness he had been sure could not exist in his new body, his new self. Fear. And when Michelle had appeared, it was almost as if he’d awoken from a nightmare. Only instead of seeing the trusted, loyal friend he should have recognised, he saw a demon staring down at him.

            And he had panicked.

            Dean Winchester. The Lord of Souls, demon-killer extraordinaire had _panicked_ at the sight of a demon.

            ‘Embarrassing’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

            But what was worse, in that inexplicable moment of terror and confusion, he had teleported to Sam.

            That was surely unforgivable. Treasonous. He had warned – no, ordered – every one of his demons to avoid Sam Winchester on pain of annihilation – by Dean himself. It was one of few decrees. And yet he had zapped off to his old brother as though he were, what, a human?

            It made no sense.

            _Yes, it does,_ whispered a malicious voice in the back of Dean’s mind. _Of course you went to him. You needed help. The only reason you forbade the demons to approach him was to keep him safe. He’s still your brother._

            Dean shook his head sharply, barely stifling a snarl. Human blood. He could almost taste it in the back of his mouth, like zinc: dry and metallic. He shook its lies from his mind. He was a demon. Hell, he was more: he was the Lord of demons. The Lord of Souls, both black and white.

            He admitted that if Sam – or someone – hadn’t broken the sigils carved into his chest, he might not have been able to heal himself as he had now. And yes, the blessed human blood had tingled a little, and yes, it had seemed to speed his recovery, but it had not cured him. He was still a demon. One hundred per cent.

            His mind flashed back to wrenching his wrists apart, breaking the demon handcuffs.

            Okay, ninety per cent demon. Maybe eighty-five. But once he got the last remnants of human blood out of his bloodstream, he’d be fighting fit.

            And there was not much longer to wait. He could feel the delicious power flowing out from the branded mark on his right forearm, slowly but inexorably annihilating any trace of humanity inside him, restoring him to his true, black-souled self. Feeling the blackness gradually filling him once more, Dean was comforted. As long as he had the Mark, he need never fear becoming human again.

            With that comfort, that surety that he had not allowed himself to be lost to the agony of humanhood, came anger. Raw, indignant rage pulsed through him with every beat of his heart, with every thought. He was infuriated he had allowed some overgrown moose of a human drug him with humanity. He was enraged he had felt his powers falter, if only for a moment. If that cure had worked, if he had been made human again – he cringed at the thought – then what would he have been left with? He would have gone from an all-powerful, utterly free being of desire and impulse to some pathetic, guilt-infested failure. Someone who was so preoccupied with family and fighting the good fight and all that bullshit that he had let his own life be ruled by someone else. First his father, then angels, demons, Leviathans, and through it all that indestructible, overriding sense of obligation to his little brother. Someone who defined their worth not by who they were or what they had accomplished, but by the role some obsessed widower had bored into him so efficiently he didn’t even make sense without it.

            That man, that Dean Winchester was nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the Lord of Souls. He lived his life for himself. In the space of a year he had fulfilled every goal he set himself. Better still, he had lived free for the first time in his miserable existence. He had finally stopped holding back, stopped fighting that darkness that had always churned inside him. Instead, he had embraced it. And it. Was. _Bliss_.

            The Blade’s whispers were becoming stronger, more insistent. Dean could feel its restlessness, its eagerness to taste new blood. He needed to kill. He hadn’t used the ancient weapon since the church, when he had killed Crowley.

            Now that had been sweet.

            Few kills had been as rapturously satisfying as killing Abaddon had been, but with Crowley ... that had come close. Tantalizingly close.

            The Blade began to hum in his hand, like a contented purr.

            Dean’s mouth curled into a smile that would have stopped a hardened soldier dead in their tracks. Having the First Blade back again made him feel whole. It wasn’t a weapon so much as it was an extension of his arm. The crushing, desperate emptiness it had left in him during his imprisonment had almost consumed him. Now, reunited with the Mark, its other half, it wasn’t just Dean’s power that was being restored. His very sense of self was revived.

            The Blade gave a slight shiver. Dean smiled down at it, relishing the feel of its firm, grounding weight in his fist. The sinew-wrapped hilt fit his palm as though it had been made for him. Feeling its smooth resistance in his palm felt _right_. It felt like safety. Like home.

The old jawbone twitched eagerly, reacting to his thoughts, showing its readiness to prove just how right they were together. It was time to get back to work.

            Readjusting his grip on the Blade, Dean turned and pushed the heavy double doors of the office open. Without breaking his stride, he started down the hall.

            There was one problem he had to take care of before the fun started.

            Lucius.

            Michelle had filled Dean in on the supposedly trustworthy Knight’s behaviour during his brief absence. It seemed that the ‘unwaveringly loyal’ demon who had professed his immortal and eternal fidelity and allegiance to Dean and none other had not considered it ‘necessary’ to look for his missing master.

            Call him idealistic, but Dean didn’t consider leaving him for dead a promising trait for a lieutenant.

            Unfortunately for Lucius, firing was done a lot more literally in Hell than on Earth.

            Dean entered the meeting room without knocking. Michelle and Lucius were waiting for him, each seated in a cushioned armchair to either side of the grand fireplace that dominated the far wall.

            Michelle stood when he entered, her lips pressed into a sly yet welcoming smile. Her auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders like a copper waterfall. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with the unique fire that had first drawn Dean to her, back when she was human.

            Her loyalties, at least, were far beyond questioning. Not only had she saved his life, she had kept Hell running as smoothly as was possible in his absence. Not to mention she had welcomed him back with open arms ... and more. His moment of weakness was forgotten in her eyes, and during the weeks since his return, their bond had grown stronger.

            Lucius rose more slowly to his feet, neatening his perfectly straight tie unnecessarily and avoiding Dean’s eyes before eventually meeting them.

            “Lucius,” Dean greeted formally, coming to a halt beside Michelle and curling his arm snugly around her middle.

            “My lord Dean.” Lucius bowed his oil-slicked head.

            “I think it’s about time we made our move,” Dean said casually, as though pondering the idea of going for a round of golf. “We have more than enough strength to overrun the place without needing to replenish our stocks.”

            Lucius’s eyebrow cocked. “You’re certain? Forgive me, Dean, but I hardly think now is the time to –”

            “Why not?” Dean’s voice may have been friendly but the threat was blatant in his burning eyes.

            The Knight’s gaze did not falter. “I mean,” he said boldly, “that you have only been back from your ... vacation a few weeks.”

            In the time it took Lucius to blink, he was pinned by the throat to the wall above the fire. He gasped and choked, fumbling against Dean’s wrist, trying to break his hold.

            “Funny you should mention my ‘vacation’,” Dean snarled in a mock-friendly tone. “I was just thinking about that, about how” – he tightened his grip on the demon’s throat – “you decided to just _sit_ here, cosy and snug in your armchair in the middle of Hell” – Dean’s voice lowered as he spat the words through gritted teeth – “and left me to rot!”

            Lucius gagged, his eyes widening as he fought for air. “I – thought – you – h-had gone after y-your” – he heaved a breath against Dean’s fist – “brother!”

            Dean stared at him in disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you – after everything we’ve been through together, you think I would abandon you for _him!”_

            Lucius’s mouth worked soundlessly, his hands wringing Dean’s wrist raw through his black shirt.

            Dean let out a low, mirthless chuckle. “Oh man, Lucius,” he said, a touch of sorrow in his voice. “You just never understood it, did you?”

            Dean pressed the tip of the First Blade gently against Lucius’s abdomen, just hard enough to press the silky fabric of his shirt against the hidden skin.

            “Family means more than blood.”

            With one quick thrust, the blade sank into Lucius’s soft middle. Red-orange lightning flashed through the demon’s meat suit as a soundless scream distorted his features.

            Dean wrenched the weapon out of his former lieutenant and let his corpse fall in a heap in front of the fire. Breathing heavily, he turned his burning gaze to Michelle. Dean’s blood sang with the heated joy of killing, mixed with the exquisite release of the joined power of the Mark and Blade. He closed his eyes as a shiver ran up his spine. He felt the last of the human blood burn away in the swell of black energy.

            When he opened his eyes, they were black.

            “It’s time,” he told Michelle, his voice laced with restrained fury. “We move on the Veil.”


	40. Opening the Veil

            It was one of the most complicated spells Dean had ever seen. Essence of kraken was one of the more easily found ingredients, and it had taken Lucius and Michelle over a fortnight of constant searching to find Crowley’s stores. Luckily, once they had found it nestled snuggly in the mountains of Switzerland, more than half the necessary ingredients were hidden somewhere in the cavernous vaults, along with what, judging by Lucius’s description, Dean suspected to be the Freemason’s treasure Nic Cage had been after in _National Treasure_.

            Other ingredients, such as the finely ground horn of a manticore and seven scales from the seven sea nymphs, had been harder to track down. It turned out hunting for rare spell ingredients was just another useful perk of having legions of groupie demons salivating for your every order.

            Dean smiled. He was exaggerating. But not by much.

            The last element of the spell – the fresh blood of a virgin – had just been procured and, with the screams still echoing through the trees surrounding the mountainside clearing, was added to the rest of the recipe.

            Michelle’s voice filled the chilly night air as the screams followed their owner into death and she invoked the magic necessary to bind the ingredients together. Her right hand moved slowly in sweeping curling motions through the concoction in gently curving arcs, carefully and slowly mixing the ingredients together. After every fourth stir with her right hand, the spell called for seven stirs in the opposite direction with her left. Each word of the incantation had to be said at precisely the right moment, and if any were mispronounced, the speaker would be, if the translation was literal, atomized and scattered throughout the universe.

            Despite that constant threat, Michelle seemed utterly serene. Her voice lilted melodically with the long verse, her lips quirked slightly in a smile. Dean had noticed her curious ability with spellwork shortly after turning her. He marvelled at her confidence, at her skill. He had never seen anyone, not even that Magnus hermit, so comfortable and sure with spells, let alone ones as dark as this. Once she had finished blending the various components together, Michelle carefully scooped some of the gooey reddish-black mixture in her cupped hand and began drawing the elaborate sigil over the short grass.

            It was further proof to Dean that her intelligence and dedication exceeded her physical beauty. And that was saying something.

            Dean pulled his attention reluctantly from her moonlit face and swept his gaze around the clearing. Almost a hundred demons filled the sloping meadow, leaving a respectful (or more probably fearful) distance between their ranks and their leaders. The moon-silvered pine trees swayed gently in the light breeze, their needles rustling against each other, adding a soft, monotonous background to Michelle’s chanting, like a faraway waterfall.

            The First Blade waited impatiently in its holster on Dean’s thigh. He could feel its eagerness for blood like an itch in the back of his mind. He knew that if he were to hold it, it would be hard to resist obeying its call. Ever since he had almost been turned into a human, Dean had noticed the Blade seemed more aggressive, verging on obsessive with sating its thirst for hot blood. Dean assumed it too was fuming at nearly being rendered useless again. Before Dean had claimed it, it had spent centuries rotting in the Mariana Trench, abandoned by its master. The Mark had been burning dully too, though not so much as to glow on his arm. It didn’t hurt, per se, but it was uncomfortable enough that Dean was almost constantly aware of the brand. When he held the Blade, the Mark sent tendrils of biting power shooting up and down his arm, something that did not exactly add to the euphoria of being bonded to the weapon. Dean wondered if this was some lingering aftereffect of the demon cure, or if it heralded some sort of advancement in his powers. That seemed likely. Considering all he’d done since Cain gave him the Mark, Dean thought he was due a level-up.

            As his gaze returned to his lieutenant, Dean saw a shimmering crack appear over the centre of the half-drawn spell form. Michelle, intent on her work, was crouched with her back to him, adding another line to the intricate sigil. The crack looked like a fork of lightning frozen in time, but far dimmer. It hovered over the sigil, its tip just touching the central intersection of the design. It was as long as Dean was tall, and with each new word and line of the spell, it climbed steadily higher into the sky. The light it emitted came from the other side of the crack – the Veil. It was the same warm white light Dean had seen before, years ago in a town plagued by Famine. It was the light of souls, waiting to burst back into the Earth.

            Dean could feel gentle shivers pulsing out of the crack, like waves tumbling onto the shore on a calm day. They were weak, echoes of the waiting power. A tsunami gathering on the horizon. Like the whistling winds that herald a storm, the screams and moans of the billions of souls whispered from the tear in kingdoms. They were muted now, Dean had to listen carefully to catch them, but as the crack widened, they became louder, more distinct. Soon he would be able to discern the words.

            Dean raised a hand, signalling. The sounds of rustling grass filled the air as the demons prepared themselves. Once the crack became a door, the souls would flood out of it like water through a broken dam. Their first instinct would be to find their bodies, so many of them would soar away to the scenes of their deaths. Souls were quick; the demons would have to be quicker.

            Dean had ordered them to smoke out once he gave the signal and form a twisting black tunnel to funnel the souls like frightened cattle into the already drawn spell form waiting in a nearby meadow. Any soul that passed through the blood-painted sigil would be instantly transported to Hell, where the rest of his demons waited with sharpened tools. And no soul, pure or soiled, could leave Hell without Dean’s word.

            Breathing a deep, satisfied breath, Dean smiled. The only thing that could stop them now was if Michelle messed up the spell. Which was as good as impossible.

            The First Blade gave an odd sort of tremor against Dean’s thigh. He looked down at it, half expecting to see a hellhound grazing his leg. There was nothing.

            The sudden cries of pain and shock slicing through the air had Dean whipping around, the Blade flashing into his palm. Instantly he felt the Mark send those strange shooting pains through him, like pins and needles.

            Flashes of bright red light were pulsing through the demons like firecrackers. Demons near the flashes were pouring out of their meat suits in terror, trying to flee the oncoming light.

            Behind Dean, Michelle glanced up at the sound of the commotion without pausing in her incantation.

            Dean felt his stomach plummet to the ground as the flashes of red drew closer, leaving demon after demon crumpling to the ground in its wake. As his army recovered from the shock of the unexpected intruder, they sank into defensive crouches, ready to spring forward and protect their lord if the threat came too close. Those nearest the newcomer threw themselves at them, fierce battle cries piercing the cold air. The wind picked up slightly and it seemed as though the rustling pine trees were egging the soldiers on. The demons who had abandoned their vessels in fright circled overhead like smoky black sharks readying themselves for a feeding frenzy.

            Without turning his head from the battle, Dean spoke to Michelle. “Be ready to disappear. The spell can be redrawn; make sure you get yourself out of here, you hear me?”

            She didn’t respond, absorbed as she was in the spell, but he knew she had heard him. Whether or not she would listen remained to be seen.

            Dean’s palm was suddenly sweaty. He gripped the hilt of the First Blade more tightly in his hand, afraid it would wrench itself away at any moment. The flashing light was almost upon him now, his demons retreating to flank him, unsure how to defeat the unknown foe.

            Well, unknown to them. Dean knew exactly who was killing his demons. He recognised the severe, bearded face and hawk-like eyebrows. He could feel the First Blade quiver slightly as it felt its first master break through the last of the demons and come to a halt, casually regarding Dean as though admiring a painting in a gallery. The silver-speckled beard twitched into an insincere smile. The bare forearms crossed, slowly, giving each demon watching him a clear view of the branded mark below the man’s right elbow.

            Cain.


	41. Close Call

            Cas gasped a mighty breath of air, his eyes opening wide in terror, his hands flailing over his head. Something heavy was hitting him repeatedly on his left shoulder with a dull thud. His stolen blood was pumping impossibly fast, thundering through his ears, deafening him. He scrambled frantically backwards, pushing himself on his back with his legs. Every time his heel caught the hem of his coat his heart seemed to stop momentarily.

            He had to get away, he had to run, fly, _now_ , or he was dead, and there would be no one to warn Sam and Dean – and Dean was a demon and he had to help Sam cure him, or deal with the demon if the cure didn’t work, he had to get to Earth, _now_ , or everything would collapse, his world would end and his best friends would die and – and –

            “CAS!”

            Suddenly his shoulders were pressed firmly against a solid something, and with that abrupt contact came a greater awareness of the world around him. A world that was most definitely not Heaven.

            _“CAS!”_

            Panting, eyes wide, Cas lowered his arms and stared at the apparition in front of him. It was Sam.

            “S-S-Sam?” he stammered, wondering if this was some sort of hallucination caused by extreme stress, or death. Maybe instead of their lives flashing before their eyes, angels saw the people they loved most.

            But then, he wasn’t an angel.

            Fighting to get his heart rate and his breathing under control, Cas squinted up at Sam. He looked solid, real. Widening his gaze, Cas recognised the Bunker’s atrium. Silent books watched from their shelves as he pushed himself to his feet.

            “Um,” he said, utterly confused. “What ... happened?”

            Sam’s face broke into a brief grin, and he hunkered down beside Cas, keeping his palms up in a gesture of peace. Had he thought Cas had been trying to defend himself from _him?_ “You sure you’re with me?”

            Not sure at all, Cas nodded.

            Sam exhaled in a relieved gust. “Good. You’re in the Bunker.”

            “I can see that,” Cas said, keeping his tone carefully level and casual. Probably too casual. “But, um ... how did I get here?”

            “I summoned you.”

            “You summoned me.”

            Sam nodded, his eyebrows rising.

            Cas stared at him intently. “From Heaven?” he clarified.

            “If that’s where you were, then yeah, from Heaven.”

            “Just now?”

            “Yeah ...?”

            Cas blinked. Well. That was very fortunate timing. Not for the first time, Cas looked down at Jimmy Novak’s body, pleasantly surprised to find himself alive. He looked back up at Sam, smiling. “Thank you.”

            Sam returned the grin. “Anytime. Hey, Cas?”

            “Yes?”

            “You look like crap.”

            “I feel like crap,” he answered truthfully. In fact, ‘crap’ was a massive understatement. With the initial terror and confusion of the unexpected relocation – not to mention narrowly avoiding Metatron’s angelblade – Cas could feel the emptiness regaining its hold inside him. Quite suddenly, he found he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.

            He slumped to the side, and Sam reached an arm out to stop him. “Whoa, buddy, you alright?”

            “No,” Cas breathed, his voice tight with pain and fear. “I, um ... Sam, take these. Quickly.”

            He held out the rough sack he had taken from the office. Or rather, he held out the neck of the sack: his arm was too weak to hold its weight.

            “What’s this?”

            “The ... the Tablets.”

            Sam’s eyes widened as he took the bag. He glanced between it and Castiel and his brows quickly pulled into a perfect Winchester frown. “Your Grace is almost gone, isn’t it?”

            Cas nodded. “M-More than almost.”

            “Right. Come with me. I have it all ready.”

            Cas wanted to ask all what he had ready, but Sam was pulling him to his feet much too quickly and his breath seemed to have stayed on the floor with his stomach. Pulling Cas’s arm over his shoulder, Sam half-carried him through the Bunker and into the dungeon.

            A table waited to one side of the iron Devil’s Trap. A large, wide bowl waited atop it, and Cas caught the faint aroma of something sweet and woody that tickled his memory.

            “You wait here.”

            Sam deposited him on the floor outside the Trap. Cas looked around and saw red lines painted onto the concrete beneath him. He was sitting in a sigil.

            Apprehension twisted inside him.

            “Sam?” he called. “What are y ... What are you doing?”

            “Making you a Grace,” came the reply from somewhere to his left. He felt his brows pull down in a frown.

            “That’s impossible, Sam.”

            “Nope. Just tricky.”

            “Sam, what do you intend to do?” His words were drowned out by Sam’s as the young Winchester began a long Enochian chant. Cas tried to concentrate on the words, but they kept sliding in and out of his hearing, like a badly tuned radio. He caught a few choice words though, and they did not reassure him.

            “Saaam!” he called in warning, trying to pull himself to his feet and failing impressively.

            Suddenly Sam was standing over him, his feet waiting just beyond the outermost painted line. Cas felt Sam’s fingers draw something on his forehead with a dry paste, chanting all the while.

            “Sam ...” Castiel’s protest went unheard as Sam daubed more of the sweet-smelling paste on his cheeks.

            In one fluid motion, Sam knelt down opposite Cas. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows creased in concentration. Too quickly for Cas to stop it, Sam thrust his arm out, slamming his palm against Cas’s forehead and holding it tightly. Cas heard his angelic name ring out and echo through the dungeon as Sam’s eyes opened, his irises burning a brilliant blue.

            Then, as Castiel opened his mouth to scream, the world exploded.


	42. By the Grace of Sam Winchester

            Sam was blown back by the force of the white light that was bursting out of Castiel’s body. He slammed hard into the far wall of the dungeon and slid in a heap to the equally hard ground.

            The light was more intense that any he had ever witnessed. It seared his retinas through his closed eyes, so he shielded them with raised forearms, but it did little to help. A high-pitched, painful ringing accompanied the impossibly bright light, so loud it drowned out Castiel’s agonized scream.

            Sam curled into a ball on the floor, trying to protect himself. The light beat against him like a physical blow, pulsing out from Cas in an ever-increasing rhythm, like a panicking heartbeat. A scream of his own wrenched itself from Sam’s lungs, but even he could hardly hear it.

            He trembled as the light consumed the world.

            As suddenly as the explosion had started, it stopped.

            Sam lowered his arms slowly, breathing deeply as he squinted, the imprint of the brilliant light superimposed over his vision.

            Cas was on his feet, standing in the centre of the Anam sigil. The lines of red paint had been mostly burned away, leaving speckles glowing like embers, hinting at the symbol’s original design. All traces of blood and dust had disappeared from Castiel’s clothes. His skin had a healthy glow and the dark circles under his eyes had vanished. His hair was ruffled, windswept from the force of the spell. His pupils shone with the electric blue Sam had seen before, though it had never looked as bright as this. As the light faded, Castiel’s eyes were alight with joy and calm, the corner of his mouth quirked in a miraculous smile.

            Cautiously, Sam rose to his feet. “Cas? You okay, buddy?”

            Cas looked up from his healed body to meet Sam’s gaze, his face positively shining with wonder. “Sam ...” He gestured to himself, at a loss for words. Glancing over his shoulder, he beamed.

            “I, uh, I made you a new Grace.”

            “I can feel that ... but ... how?”

            “Death told me.”

            “Death!”

            “Yeah, he said it was one of the oldest spells in existence. He wasn’t sure why God made it.”

            Cas gaped. “What was the spell? I didn’t think such a thing was possible. Least of all by a human.”

            Sam snorted. “Thanks.”

            “I-I mean,” Cas started, backtracking. Sam held up a hand, smiling as he strode forward to embrace his friend.

            “Good to have you back, Cas.”

            He felt Cas’s arms tighten slowly around his middle. After a moment, they broke apart.

            “But how did you do it, Sam?” Cas asked, his eyes still wide. “It ... it ... feels so different from my Grace. From any angel’s Grace. It’s ...” He searched for the word, his eyes roaming around the dungeon as though hoping to find it painted on the walls or ceiling. “... warmer.”

            “It that a good thing?” Sam asked uncertainly.

            “Good? Sam, it’s euphoric.”

            Sam broke into a wide grin.

            “How did you do it?” Cas asked again, more insistently.

            “It was actually kind of easy. Well, there were a load of ingredients I’ve never even heard of, but the Men of Letters clearly had: everything I needed was in their storerooms. But the ingredients were more sort of ... decoration, really.”

            “Decoration?” Cas scoffed. “Then what – how – Sam! A _Grace!_ That’s pure creation!”

            “Exactly,” Sam said, smiling.

            Cas’s expression turned from exasperation to puzzlement. Taking pity on his newly angelic friend, Sam explained.

            “Grace is pure creation, but it’s not the only thing on Earth that is. The spell Death told me just showed me how to harness that power that was already there and throw it your way. And it’s like any angel’s Grace: infinitely renewable.”

            “It’s not like any angel’s Grace, Sam, I can assure you. This feels far stronger. What power did you harness? Sunlight?”

            “No, no.” Sam chuckled. “Human creativity: imagination.”

            Cas’s smile widened. He stared at Sam in amazement for a moment before throwing his head back and roaring with laughter.

            Unable to stop himself, Sam joined in. “What’s so funny?”

            Regaining control of himself – barely – Cas managed a signal word. _“Winchesters!”_

            As Cas was swept up in another wave of loud guffaws, Sam’s smile began to fade. When Cas glanced at him, he made a show of laughing along, but inside he felt himself settle back into a determined, if sorrowful, calm.

            When Cas had finally laughed himself out, he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “The day will never come, Sam Winchester, when I am not amazed by you.”

            A small smile twisted the corner of Sam’s mouth, and he glanced away, touched.

            As Cas’s chuckles died away, his eyes turned to the iron Devil’s Trap on the floor. “Death told you of the spell you say.”

            “Yeah.”

            Cas lifted his gaze to meet Sam’s. “Did he tell you any others?”

            Unable to smile, Sam nodded. “Just one.”

            “Do you have everything you need for it?”

            “Almost,” Sam replied. “There’s one last piece I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Anam' is the Irish word for 'soul'. I'm Irish and couldn't resist adding some Celtic mythology and Gaeilge :) Many thanks and hugs to my readers and reviewers, hope you're all enjoying the scéal (story)! Author out!


	43. Cain

            “Dean Winchester. It’s been a while.” Cain surveyed the sixty-odd demons surrounding him as though taking in an uninteresting display of overpriced corn.

            “Thought you’d given up fighting,” Dean returned. He held himself on the cusp of battle, ready at a moment’s notice to sink into a crouch and lunge with biting blade.

            “It seems I was simply waiting for the right cause.”

            Cain ambled closer. Dean tightened his already firm grip on the Blade.

            “I’ll have to ask you to order your Knight to stop that spell, Dean,” Cain said calmly, gesturing to Michelle. Only his eyes carried the unspoken threat across the dark grass.

            “Ah, I dunno,” Dean returned, half-glancing back at the widening crack. “Nothing can stop her when she gets like this. Ever seen _A Beautiful Mind?_ Not even close.”

            Cain smiled benignly. “Nonetheless, Dean.” His voice hardened suddenly, all joviality evapourated. “Make her stop or I will. Your choice.”

            Clenching his jaw, Dean half-turned to Michelle and spoke low enough so that Cain wouldn’t hear. “Whisper it. And stand still.”

            Michelle got to her feet and stood, her mouth slightly open and, so faintly that even Dean could hardly detect it, moving. Dean wondered bizarrely if she’d ever taken ventriloquist lessons.

            “It took me a while to find you,” Cain began conversationally as Dean turned to face him. “Congratulations.”

            “Think how much harder it would’ve been if I was hiding.”

            “Oh.” Cain came to a halt several feet before Dean, out of range of the Blade. “You don’t call what you’ve been doing hiding?”

            Dean grinned. “I call it conquering.”

            Glancing down at his feet, Cain let out a low, humourless chuckle. When his gaze returned to Dean’s, it was serious and solemn. “I see I was wrong about you, Dean. And for that I am so sorry.”

            Dean snorted. “Wrong? How were you wrong! I’ve been a demon for a year and look what I’ve done! I’ve taken Hell, I’ve brought the Knights back, I’m about to take the power of the Veil! I’ve killed thousands!”

            “Exactly.”

            Dean frowned.

            “The only reason I agreed to give you the Mark, Dean,” Cain continued, “is because I mistakenly thought you could control it. I thought you were stronger than I was. After all, you _saved_ your brother.”

            Dean’s frown deepened dangerously. “Don’t you talk about him,” he spat.

            “No,” Cain continued as though there had been no interruption, his tone thoughtful. “I killed my brother and fell to the Mark for centuries. You saved yours and fell further.”

            “Don’t you talk about Sam!”

            “Maybe it’s because of him you’ve gone so far. Trying to severe the ties? I wonder, Dean Winchester, how much of what you’ve done has been, ultimately, to protect your brother.”

            “What I’ve done I’ve done for me!” Dean roared, spit flying from his mouth. “I did it because I could and because I’m damn _good_ at it! I did it because this” – he gestured to the gathered demons and the shimmering, howling crack in the night – “is who I am!”

            Cain was shaking his head slowly, a small smile on his lips. The sight enraged Dean further, and his rage powered the Blade’s unsated thirst.

            “I’m gonna say this once, Cain! I’m gonna give you fair warning: turn back. Leave now and I’ll let you leave. You do not want to test me.”

            Cain’s eyebrows rose a moment before crashing down in a fierce scowl. So fast he must have teleported, he was in front of Dean, one hand clenched around his throat, lifting him into the air.

            “Think who you’re talking to, _boy_ ,” he spat, his hand halting Dean’s arm as he attempted to shove the First Blade into the old demon’s side. “I was the first murderer! Everything you’ve done – all that killing, all that destroying – it is nothing” – Dean’s demons started forward, trying to surround Cain; he sent them flying back a hundred feet without blinking – “ _nothing_ compared to what I did! To what I am! You think a bullet is the most terrifying force to exist? That all should quail before its power? I was the first bullet, boy! I was the first gun!”

            Dean choked, gasping for breath. Unable to break Cain’s hold on his throat, he brought his leg up hard, kneeing the first murderer in the groin.

            Cain dropped him with a snarl, recovering impossibly fast and throwing a merciless punch at Dean’s jaw. Dean took it, using the stinging momentum to whirl around and slice a line of red across Cain’s upper arm.

            The First Blade shuddered deliciously at the contact.

            Cain’s eyes widened in shock and – fear? Dean’s lips curled into a vicious snarl.

            He lunged again, thrusting with the Blade, aiming for Cain’s heart, but the old demon was expecting it. He blocked the blow, grabbing Dean’s wrist and wrenching it backwards. Dean cried out as he heard and felt a loud _snap_.

            Before Cain could grab the Blade, Dean disappeared, returning a split-second later behind the old demon and landing a solid punch to his kidneys with his uninjured hand. Cain roared in defiance, whirling around and continuing his attack in earnest, as the souls’ howls grew louder and more piercing behind them.

            As they traded blow after blow, each parrying and dodging the other’s, Cain sent demon after demon that ran to Dean’s aid hurtling back in a flash of ruby red. He never so much as broke rhythm.

            Blood blossomed over Dean’s eye. He felt a rib crack and his abdomen clench against the pain of Cain’s boot. As blood from his lip dribbled into his mouth, Dean smiled, flicking his tongue out to taste it. Finally. A challenge.

            Dean rammed the sole of his thick boot into the centre of Cain’s chest, sending him stumbling back a step. It was enough: focusing intently, Dean brought both his hands together over the First Blade’s hilt and called the lightning. Light shot from the tip of the Blade, so bright it seemed to rend the night in half, screeching through the air right at Cain’s unprotected chest.

            A split second before Cain was blotted out by the brightness, Dean saw the old demon’s lips curl back in a smug smile.

            The lightning made contact with a deafening _crack_ , sending a concussion through the air like thunder, slamming into Dean and knocking him back a step. He held fast, holding the old knife steady as he waited for the resistance that was Cain to be obliterated into a fine dust.

            Instead, Dean felt the Blade shudder. Glancing down at it, Dean saw it flinch in his hands again as a shock of white light ran like a ring up the shaft of lightning and passed over the Blade, then shuddered painfully up his arms. Gritting his teeth, he threw his weight forward into the assault, taking a step closer to Cain.

            It was no good. The lightning was dimming. Dean could see Cain’s shadowy silhouette through the shield of burning light. Cain’s had was raised, his Mark glowing like a firework. He was _absorbing_ the lightning.

            For the second time in the same month, Dean Winchester felt fear tingle inside him.

            He just had time to make out Cain’s shadowy figure extend his arm as though pushing open a door before the lightning turned back and engulfed him.

            Every nerve seared with pain as he was thrown backwards. The world was white and screaming so hard it hurt Dean’s ears. It took him a moment to realise the screaming was coming from his own mouth.

            He landed with a bone-jarring thud on the hard ground as the whiteness vanished. Darkness loomed around him as he rolled onto his side, coughing, blinking away the searing aftereffects of the lightning. His body burned. He tasted blood and spat, pressing his face into the blissfully cool grass.

            He felt the rhythmical thuds of approaching footsteps. A hand curled around the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. His fingers closed around empty air and he reached out with his mind for the First Blade. He could feel it, it was so close, but it was locked in a grip stronger than a cursebox. Struggling to support his own weight, Dean blinked the image of the first murderer’s face into focus. Cain’s grip shifted from his collar to hold him up by a fistful of jacket. Dean felt the blood-warmed, razor-sharp edge of the First Blade press gently against his exposed throat.

            “You didn’t really think you’d learned all my tricks, did you, Dean? The Blade and I were one for _centuries_. You’ve barely scratched the surface of its power. Of its secrets.”

            Coughing, Dean saw a shadowy figure standing beside the shimmering crack of the Veil throw their arms out to him, as though reaching out to save him. The crack closed abruptly and the energy it had gathered came thundering into Cain’s back with a long, high, piercing screech.

            Without showing any emotion, Cain whipped his blade-wielding arm back, aiming its point at the oncoming force. As the howling energy reached the point of the First Blade, it crashed like a wave on the invisible wall of Cain’s power, rumbling off in a shockwave that shook the ground.

            The Blade’s point turned to the figure standing over the useless sigil.

            Dean’s eyes widened. He gasped for air, desperate to call out.

            “Mi-chelle!” He fought against Cain’s grip. _“RUN!”_

            The figure disappeared a split-second before a shock of red-tinged lightning tore through it.

            Cain turned to face Dean. His eyes were black. When he spoke, it was in a voice as low and powerful as thunder.

            “Enough, my son!”


	44. Delivery for a Mr. Winchester

            Doubt fell like heavy raindrops in Castiel’s mind. The Winchesters’ reputation for their seemingly impossible and clearly suicidal plans was surpassed only by their uncanny, and in some cases unbelievable ability to come out on top against the most unforgiving odds. Despite his faith in their loyalty and determination, Cas couldn’t bring himself to like the younger Winchester’s newest plan. Surely, it could only end in death and grief.

            The only question was who would be dead and who would be grieving.

            Trying to tell Sam that, however, was utterly futile.

            “I KNOW, Cas!” Sam shouted, his voice echoing through the Bunker’s atrium as he flung his arms skyward in a gesture of hopeless frustration. “But what else can we do? What else can we even try? If you have any bright ideas, please. I’m all ears.” He fixed his suddenly very young eyes on Cas’s, and Cas was struck at how closely human eyes could resemble those of a juvenile canine.

            “I,” he began, glancing around at the ancient tomes as though looking for a hidden solution somewhere between the old spines. “... have no idea what else we could even attempt,” he finished at last, defeated.

            “But Sam,” he tried again, his tone laced with disbelief. “There are so many things that could go wrong – and not just for Dean! Do you know how dangerous unbound Grace is? You’ve only ever seen me or another angel handle it and for good reason. It’s volatile. There’s a reason unsuitable angel vessels explode, you know.”

            “Yeah, Cas, I get that,” Sam returned tiredly, wiping a hand across the dark circles under his eyes. “Believe me, I know how dangerous this plan is. I know how easily we could kill him. Or if it doesn’t work and he gets loose again, how easily he could kill me. Hell, he almost did last time. But it’s all we’ve got. There’s nothing in the lore and there is no plan B. All we’ve got is Death’s theories.”  

            “Yes – _theories!_ We could perform it perfectly and find it doesn’t even work!”

            “Well,” Sam said slowly, staring fixedly at Cas’s elbow. “If that happens, then ... then the demon will have to be dealt with, I guess.”

            Cas blinked, unsure he had heard correctly. “Dealt with? You mean killed?”

            When Sam’s eyes met his, they were filled with a darkness Cas had never seen in them before. “If I can’t save my brother.” He hesitated, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Then I’ll have to kill him.”

            “... How?”

            “I’ll figure something out.”

            The mere thought of Sam Winchester murdering his brother was too much for Cas to bear. “Absolutely not.”

            “What?”

            “You cannot kill him.”

            Sam’s arms flapped by his sides. “Well, what the hell else can we do, Cas? Lock him in the dungeon for eternity?”

            “No, you misunderstand me. _You_ will not kill him.”

            Sam’s expression turned quizzical. Glancing down at his hands, Cas took a breath big enough to force the heavy words across the gleaming table to Sam’s waiting ears.

            “If it turns out that we have to kill Dean,” he said slowly, before raising his head to look Sam steadily in the eye. “I will do it.”

            “Cas, man, I can’t ask you to do th –”

            “You’re not asking me. I’m telling you. I have the power now. If we can’t save Dean ... then I will kill him.”

            Sam stared at Cas with an unfathomable expression for a long moment. Eventually, he nodded slowly. “Okay, Cas. Thanks.”

            A solemn silence engulfed them for a time as they both avoided the other’s eye.

            “Sam,” Cas said tentatively after a while. “How do you propose we, uh, find Dean?”

            Heaving a sigh, Sam leaned forward and rested his forearms on the surface of the table. “Well ... I thought we could try that spell Dean and Crowley used to track Cain down.”

            “Do you think that would work?”

            “Well, either it’ll lead us to Dean, in which case we’ll have to figure out a way to get him back here without killing anybody, or it’ll lead us to Cain and he’ll most likely try to kill us. Or,” he added brightly, “it won’t work and we’ll just have wasted our time. But it’s the only plan I’ve got.”

            Cas hmm’d as he thought it over. “I suppose we could –”

            His words were cut off by three booming knocks on the Bunker’s front door. Sam and Cas stared at each other.

            “I somehow doubt that’s the pizza man,” Cas said as he rose to his feet. Sam copied him, pulling his gun out and cocking it.

            They moved quickly to the door. With Cas waiting near the hinges, ready to surprise whoever it was if there was need, Sam pulled the door open a crack, his finger brushing gently against the trigger of his gun.

            Sam’s eyes widened in shock as he took in the sight on the other side of the thick door. A deep voice spoke through the opening, stirring an ancient memory in Cas’s mind. “Sam Winchester? I believe this belongs to you.”

            Sam shot Cas a confused glance. “Um, yes, uh, is –”

            “Would you mind stepping aside?” the voice asked. “He’s starting to come around.”

            Sam hesitated for a moment longer before obliging and allowing the stranger inside. He signaled to Cas to stay hidden behind the door, and he sank further back into the shadows.

            Cas watched from his admittedly crap hiding place as a thickset man with steely grey hair and a silver-speckled beard bustled through the open door, half carrying, half dragging the unconscious form of –

            “Dean!” Cas gasped. He clapped a hand over his own mouth, but he was lucky: the sound of his outburst had been covered by Dean’s dragging boots squeaking against the floor. The little of Dean’s face that Cas could see was covered in dried blood and creased in a frown.

            “Where do you want him?” the big man huffed.

            “Um – in the dungeon, I guess – hang on, you’re Cain, aren’t you?”

            Cas stared transfixed at the first murderer. Cain!

            “Yep. Which way to the dungeon?”

            “Wait – wait!” Sam stepped in front of the first son of Adam, blocking his path. “What the hell are you – where’d you come from!”

            Whatever look Cain leveled Sam with had the younger Winchester blanching slightly.

            “You really want to question me? Now? Dean’s waking up, if you haven’t noticed, and I’m not in the mood for another round of sparring. Once he’s contained, I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

            “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

            There was a pause that made Cas sure Cain had raised his eyebrows in disdain. Sam looked abashed but held his ground, gripping his gun more firmly.

            “Does this look like a trap?”

            “Could be. Crowley came to you weeks ago. You said you’d help and then you just –”

            “What do you think I’m doing now?” Cain cut across him, anger flaring in his tone. “I got the boy for you, didn’t I? Isn’t that helpful? Now either tell me where this dungeon is or have your angel show me!”

            Sam’s eyes flicked to Cas and back. “What angel?”

            Cain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “The one hiding in plain sight behind the door,” he answered, sounding highly unimpressed.

            Clearing his throat, Cas stepped forward. “I am Castiel,” he announced as he drew level with the ancient demon. Cain turned his stern gaze on Cas for a long moment, evaluating him.

            “The last time I met an angel, he tried to kill me,” Cain said at last. “I hope you’re not going to repeat his mistake. It would make this quite awkward.”

            “As long as you intend us no harm, I have no desire to kill you.”

            Cain’s black eyebrow cocked in surprise. “Is that so? You don’t want me dead?”

            Cas shook his head slowly. “What happened to you was not your doing. It was Lucifer’s fault. You were only trying to protect your brother.” Cas’s eyes drifted to Dean’s half-obscured face as he spoke. “That trait seems to run in the family.”

            Avoiding Cas’s gaze, Cain grunted and gestured for Sam to lead the way.

            Sam ducked under his brother’s arm and helped Cain carry the softly groaning form through the bunker. Cas brought up the rear, his muscles tense, as much from nerves as from a readiness to fight.

 

            When they reached the Men of Letters archive, Cas stepped in front of the others and unlocked the heavy door. He flicked the lights on and walked between the rows of boxes and files to pull open the hidden entrance to the dungeon. As the creaking groan of the shelves died away, a loud _crack_ rent the air behind him. Before he could turn around, a wall of tightly compressed air punched into his back, throwing him forward onto the edge of the iron Devil’s Trap.

            Heart hammering, Cas sprang to his feet, sinking into a battle crouch as he surveyed the scene.

            Sam’s legs were just visible through the door to the hallway. He had been knocked onto his back and wasn’t moving. Cain was slumped against the wall beside Sam’s boots, pushing himself to his feet. Cas just had time to see a familiar figure disappear around the doorjamb.

            Before Cain had regained his footing, Cas was flying past him in hot pursuit, throwing an anxious glance to Sam’s unconscious form.

            Dean was fast. Despite his long absence from the Bunker, he remembered its corridors well – better than Cas did. Luckily for Cas, his new Grace flowed fiercely through him, like a raging river through his veins, pumping his legs faster than they ever had. It was exhilarating.

            He caught up to Dean in the atrium. The demon was between him and the door, too far ahead for Cas to outrun.

            It was a good thing angels didn’t just run.

            Feeling his heart swell with a joy he had been deprived of for far too long, Castiel leaped forward as his immense, beautiful, whole wings unfurled behind him, effortlessly carrying his weight. The Bunker was barely wide enough to contain his wingspan. He flapped twice, relishing the strength of his muscles, rejoicing as he felt his wingtips brush against the ceiling and floor. His Grace thrummed through him, eager to prove its strength.

            Cas whirled around in mid-air, giving one last half-flap to steady his landing as he dropped gracefully between Dean and the stairs to the Bunker’s door. Dean skidded to a halt, snarling. His eyes were black.

            Cas allowed his light to shine through Jimmy Novak’s old eyes, illuminating his mighty wings and casting their shadow behind him. Power filled him; he stood tall and proud. He very carefully hid his breaking heart as he saw Dean’s face. His true face.

            It was a pain beyond description to see the man he had rebelled for, the man he had pulled from Hell itself, filled with choking orange-red flame and billowing smoke. His once-bright soul was hard and thorny, coiling and uncoiling under the painfully normal-looking skin.

            He didn’t look like Dean. He looked as hideous and vile as every demon Cas had ever killed. There was no human hiding beneath the fire and smoke: there was only the demon that had once been his best friend.

            Dean’s lips curved into a smile over his bared teeth. “Heya, Cas,” he said in a voice that should never have belonged to such a visage. “Nice wings.”

            Cas took a step forward, funneling his pain into his rage, straightening his back and allowing his wings to fill the room. “You will go no farther, demon,” he snarled.

            Dean let out a low, dark chuckle. “Stand aside, _angel_ , or I will cut you to pieces.”

            Dean held out his hand in the direction of the dungeon, ignoring his clearly broken wrist. His fingers twitched and the flames inside him swelled, straining. Cas heard something whistling through the air before Dean’s fingers fastened tightly around the hilt of the First Blade.

            Dean’s smirk widened. He licked his bared teeth, slowly, clearly savouring his reunion with the weapon.

            For a long moment, angel and demon stared at each other, waiting. Then, as one, they leaped forward, colliding in mid-air. Cas grabbed Dean’s broken blade wrist and held it up, curling his wings tightly around him as he had done once before, on their ascent from Hell. Dean’s other hand landed hard against Cas’s right eyebrow and he felt the skin break as his head jerked back. His concentration broken, both men fell in a tangle of wings and fists to the ground, Castiel still holding tight to Dean’s wrist.

            Dean landed another punch to Cas’s forehead, trying to pull free of his grip. Cas returned the blow by swinging his right wing hard into Dean’s jaw, eliciting a grunt of pain as his head snapped back into the hard floor. Light sparked at the tip of the First Blade, and Cas pushed it away from his face a split-second before a torrent of burning light erupted from the toothed tip, burning a smoldering hole in a shelf of books.

            Letting out a great roar of rage, Cas curled his free hand around Dean’s throat and beat the demon’s head into the floor, using the precious moments of distraction to maneuver on top of him, pinning Dean to the floor with his legs, one hand holding his wrist above his head, the other tightening around the demon’s throat. Cas pulled his immense wings back slightly, their tips brushing along the cold floor as he held them proudly aloft. Feeling his face contort with rage, Cas leant forward until he was inches from Dean’s snarling face.

            “Enough, demon!” he spat.

            Dean bucked underneath him, trying desperately to free himself, but Cas, imbibed with Grace and fury, held fast. Dean roared in frustration and anger, pushing his free hand against Cas’s chest, his black eyes bulging. Castiel’s fingers tightened around his throat, slowly choking him.

            “You are not Dean Winchester,” he whispered, his voice dripping with barely restrained rage and loathing.

            The demon’s black eyes stared into Cas’s blue ones, looking like nothing more than hatred itself. Panting against Cas’s fist, Dean stilled somewhat.

            Footsteps echoed nearby but Cas did not lift his gaze from the black voids.

            “Cas!” It was Sam. “You okay?”

            “I’m fine,” Cas growled, still not breaking eye contact.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Cas saw Sam attempt to prise the demon’s fingers open from the hilt of the first murder weapon. Dean growled, straining harder against Castiel’s grip.

            “C’mon, Dean,” Sam panted. “Let it go, just let it go.”

            Two more hands appeared in Cas’s peripheral vision as Cain helped Sam relinquish the demon’s grip on the Blade. Unable to fight back, the demon let out a great roar of frustration and fury, squirming under Cas. He heard a metallic click as the hated weapon was locked in a cursebox.

            “It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay.” Sam’s stared at his brother, repeating the words as though if he said them enough, they would become true.


	45. Secret Weapon

 

            “Cas?” Sam said at last, still staring down at his struggling brother. “Let him up.”

            “What?” Cas spat, looking up at him for the first time. Cain stood some distance away, the box containing First Blade held tightly in his hands. “Are you insane?”

            “Let him up, Cas,” Sam repeated, not looking at him.

            Cas scoffed.

            “Cas. Let. Him. Up.”

            Cas shook his head in disbelief and tightened his grip on the demon’s throat for a moment before relenting. He stood up in one fluid motion and took a small step away from Dean.

            “Get up, Dean,” Sam ordered, his voice carrying an authority he rarely used.

            Dean’s scowl was enough to make a lesser man quail. Rubbing his jaw, his eyes flicked back to an achingly familiar green as he rose to his feet, breathing heavily, his broken wrist hanging gingerly at his side.

            He glared at Cain, fuming. He saw the locked cursebox held in the old demon’s arms and his expression darkened.

            “I knew you were a murderer and a failure; I didn’t know you were a traitor too,” he snarled.

            Cain didn’t respond, but his grip tightened minutely on the cursebox as the weapon inside clinked feebly against its cage.

            “And you.” He groaned, turning to Sam. “I thought I’d dealt with you.”

            Sam kept his expression cool and carefully composed. “Well, next time finish the job.”

            “I will!” Dean spat as he leapt forward, grabbing Sam by the throat and pushing him against the wall, crushing his airway. Cas was by his side in an instant, trying to pull the demon off of Sam. Cain was tugging on Dean’s other arm.

            “No – stop!” Sam gasped. Cas tugged harder, slowly loosening the demon’s grip. “C-Cas! Stop! Leave him!”

            Cas stared wide-eyed at Sam’s grimacing face. “ARE YOU NUTS?” he shouted, all patience gone. He snaked his arm around the demon’s neck and pulled, hard. He still wouldn’t break his hold on Sam’s.

            “Cas! Cain! Let him go!”

            Cas exchanged an incredulous glance with Cain.

            “You heard the kid,” the young demon snarled, a vicious smile curving his lips. “Let. Go.”

            Reluctantly, not quite believing his own trust in Sam Winchester, Castiel let go and took one, small, step back. Cain copied him, bringing his other hand down to hold the cursebox.

            Dean shuffled closer, tightening his grip on his brother’s throat. “Bold move, kid,” he said in a low voice, looking down at Sam. He blinked and his eyes returned to deepest black. “Now what’s to stop me breaking your neck like a toothpick?”

            Finally finding his footing, Sam slowly let go of his brother’s wrist, surrendering his meager defense. “Only – one – thing,” he gasped.

            Dean chuckled. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

            Sam swallowed against Dean’s hand and felt it loosen just enough to allow him to speak. “I’m your brother.”

            Dean snorted as his eyes switched back to green. “If you think I still give a fu –”

            “I’m your brother,” Sam repeated, cutting across him. “And the last thing you would ever do, Dean, is hurt me.”

            Dean’s laugh filled the atrium. “Then what was it I did last time? In that kip of a church?”

            “You’re just lost, Dean,” Sam continued, as though there had been no interruption. “But it’s okay. It’s _okay_ , Dean. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you down again, big brother. I’m gonna get you back –”

            The last word was contorted by Dean’s tightening fist. Cas took a half step forward but Sam raised his hand slightly, silently ordering him to stay back.

            “There’s something you’re not understanding, Sam,” Dean growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want to ‘come back’. I like this” – his eyes blinked black – “I like being _free!”_

            “No, Dean. You don’t. You –”

            The fingers tightened further. “You know nothing, Sam!”

            “I’m not Sam,” Sam wheezed. “I’m _Sammy_ , Dean. I’m your Sammy.” He felt tears pushing behind his eyes, and for once he didn’t hold them back. “I’m your brother, Dean.” The tears swelled in his eyes. He placed his hand gently, non-threateningly, on Dean’s chest. “And I know I let you down, Dean.” His voice faltered slightly but he kept going. He needed to say this. Almost as much as Dean needed to hear it. “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that. I know how much you’ve lost. I know how much easier it must be to not feel.” He took a quivering breath. “You’re the best person I know, Dean. The best. Better than this.”

            Dean’s brow was creased slightly as he stared at Sam.

            “I need you, Dean,” he said simply as the tears began cascading down his cheeks. “I need you to come back. I just want my big brother back, Dean, the one who’d let me have the last of the Lucky Charms. The one who stole Christmas presents for me, who drove me to the ER on his handlebars, who –” His voice cracked. He took as deep a breath as he could and reached his free hand into his trouser pocket, fumbling for his last hope. “The one who has always been there for me, no matter the cost, and I know how high the cost has been for you, Dean,” he choked. “I know how much you’ve sacrificed for me. You’ve been looking out for me since you were four. All my life. You brought me back from the edge, back from Lucifer, back from the dead. You saved my soul. I want my big brother back, Dean. Please. I need you.”

            Sam pulled the long-forgotten amulet from his pocket. Slowly, he separated the thong and placed it carefully around Dean’s neck. Dean looked down at the small horned head as it thudded into place against his chest. He blinked as he stared at the tiny golden figure, his brow furrowed. Slowly, his hand shaking, Dean released Sam’s throat as he looked up at him. He looked so young and so lost. Sam felt his heart break.

            He wanted nothing more than to pull his hurting brother into a tight hug, but he knew he was dealing with trust as brittle as spun glass.

            “Will you come with me, Dean?”

            Looking as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was or what was happening, Dean nodded uncertainly.

            Sam gently laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, nudging him toward the door that would lead them to the dungeon and the waiting Devil’s Trap.

            As Dean took an uncertain step forwards, the First Blade jerked suddenly in the cursebox, the frantic rattle breaking the silence. Dean’s posture straightened just as quickly, and Sam saw his eyes turn black.

            His eyes widening in sudden fear, Sam called out. “Cas!”

            Before the angel could reach the demon, the back of Dean’s hand slammed into Sam’s jaw, sending him flying and crashing painfully into a wall of books. With heavy tomes raining down on his back and head, Sam struggled to his feet.

            Cas was wrestling with Dean as he fought, snarling and spitting, to get to Sam. Cain’s eyes were black as he held tight onto the cursebox that was jerking and bucking in his arms as the Blade tried desperately to return to its younger master. The locked lid jumped and bent as the Blade tried to cut itself free. Cain slammed the box to the ground, pressing both his hands over the lid with all the strength he could muster.

            Sam pushed himself up and ran to help the old demon, ignoring his brother’s howls of rage as he stepped out of reach. He called over his shoulder, telling Cas to get Dean to the Trap _now_.

            Cain’s face was contorted in rage and effort as he held on to the fiercely struggling cursebox. Sam fell to his knees and skidded to a halt. Ignoring Cain, he pressed his hand to the front of the cursebox and frantically invoked the strongest containment spell he knew. Silence fell inside the black box as the final word was spoken. Both man and demon sagged in relief. Sam brushed a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath.

            “I never thought it possible,” Cain muttered, sounding bewildered.

            “What?”

            “The First Blade ignoring me like that. Choosing another so passionately. Well,” he added a little more brightly, meeting Sam’s gaze. “I guess that’s just payback for the Mariana Trench.”

            Despite himself, Sam chuckled. “Thank you,” he said to the old demon, and he surprised himself by meaning it. “I’m not sure how I would’ve gotten Dean here without you. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

            Cain bowed his head once, accepting the praise. “You honour me, Mr. Winchester.”

            “Sam.”

            “Sam,” Cain repeated, smiling slightly. There was an odd sort of energy in his eyes that Sam found mesmerizing. Must be the demon power. “That was impressive, breaking through to him like that. I can see why he chose to save you.”

            “Heh, yeah, well. That’s what you did for your brother, isn’t it? Saved him?”

            Cain blinked in surprise and the energy lessened. “Yes. Although most people usually focus on the whole ‘murder’ aspect.”

            “Well, it does kinda stick out in history.”

            Cain nodded – sadly, Sam thought. After a brief pause, he looked up at Sam again, his eyes piercing. “I owe you an apology, Sam. I regret giving Dean my Mark. My curse. I know what grief it has caused you, and I’m sorry. I thought Dean would be able to control it as I do, without giving in to it first.”

            Sam nodded. “It’s okay. Frankly, if you hadn’t have given him the Mark, he’d probably have done something else to kill Abaddon, and I doubt any of those choices would’ve been any better.”

            “I did wonder why you let him take it from me?” Cain asked carefully.

            “I, uh ...” Sam avoided his gaze. “I hadn’t seen him in a while. He didn’t exactly ask me.”

            “You were fighting?” Cain guessed.

            “Yeah. A big one.”

            “Abel and I fought like rutting bucks. The only break I got from his arguing was when Seth joined in.” An affectionate smile tugged at Cain’s lips. Sam thought the action looked quite rusty.

            A furious howl echoed through the hallway and both men looked in the direction of Dean’s scream.

            “Do you really think you can cure him?” Cain asked, his gaze searching Sam.

            “Yes.”

            “You seem awfully certain.”

            “Well ... either I’ll cure him, or I’ll kill him. But if he dies ... at least he dies human. Or,” he amended, “part human.”

            “I understand that,” Cain said softly. Sam looked at him and, not for the first time, wondered what it must have felt like, murdering his own brother to save him. Now he might be about to do the same thing.

            “Our families are weird,” Sam sighed.

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s not your fault.”

            “Not entirely. But had my family been better, been stronger, much would have been different.”

            Sam puzzled. “What do you mean?”

            “I embraced the Mark’s power once Abel was dead. Can you imagine killing Dean – back before this happened, when you were younger? It’s abhorrent. Unthinkable. Seth couldn’t even look at me afterwards. He disowned me. He vowed his descendants would curse my name for all time. I was cursed anyway; he just didn’t know it yet. We were all cursed, really. Ever since Lucifer came into the Garden, we were doomed. Evil ran in the family.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “My mother. You didn’t think she just took a bite of one apple and killed a few animals for their meat and hide, did you? The Bible gets more wrong than it does right. Eve destroyed the entire Garden. She gave evil a physical form. She created the first monsters. By the time God banished her and her ruined Eden – Purgatory – she had already created the first of all the species you’ve spent your life hunting. She had a lot to answer for.”

            Sam suddenly felt acutely awkward. “Do you know that’s she’s, uh –”

            “Dead?” Cain finished. “Yes. To be honest ... I did not mourn her.

            “I’ve done a lot of bad, Sam,” he continued after a moment. “I hope that by helping you bring your brother back, I can at least redeem myself from the curse I placed upon your family.”

            Sam smiled. “You have. Thank you. To be honest, I’d thought you just told Crowley you’d help so he’d leave you alone.”

            “I never break a promise. Besides, if he was right about Dean attacking Heaven …” Cain’s eyes darkened dangerously. “I would not allow that to happen. My love resides there. And my brother. I would die before allowing them to be harmed again.” Cain’s frown eased after a tense moment and he looked around. “Where is Crowley, anyway? I assumed he’d be here.”

            “He’s dead. Dean killed him.”

            “Ah.”

            “He died saving my life.”

            “Crowley?”

            Sam nodded.

            “Well. Who knew the King of Hell could be so noble.”

            Sam smiled at that. It faded quickly. “I need to go to Dean. Are you ... gonna stay?”

            Cain shook his head quickly. “No. No, I have ... business to attend to. I’ll leave you to yours.”

            As he turned to leave, Cain scooped up the small black box. “I’ll take care of the old bone. Good luck, Sam Winchester. I hope you save your brother.”

            “Thanks, Cain. I’m sorry you had to save yours the way you did.”

            With a last nod of understanding and a small, sad smile, Cain turned and left the Bunker. Once the door had clanged shut behind the ancient demon, Sam heaved a sigh as he heard Cas call his name.

            Now for the hard part.


	46. Confession

            Cas had tied Dean to a chair in the middle of the iron Devil’s Trap. Ropes wound around his wrists and ankles bound them to the arms and legs of the chair. The thick metal collar locked around Dean’s neck was anchored to an iron ring embedded into the concrete floor. The overhead bulb cast his face in deep shadows, making him seem half-consumed by the blackness. Black eyes watched Sam from hollowed depths.

            Sam walked over to the table braced against the side wall and opened the black case filled with eight syringes. From his inside pocket he pulled a ninth, this one twice the size of its plastic fellows. Metal braced the cylindrical compartment inside, as well as the hooped plunger. This was the syringe Castiel had used to draw the remnants of Gadreel’s Grace from inside him.

            Suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot, Sam shed his jacket and laid it carefully on the tabletop. Cas stepped up beside him.

            “Are you ready for this?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the demon.

            Sam nodded curtly. “Almost. There’s one thing I gotta do first. Will you do me a favour?”

            “Of course.”

            “Bless this.”

            He reached out beyond the pack of syringes and flipped a piece of dark cloth aside, revealing a beautiful dagger gleaming against the grey folds. The blade was almost a foot long and curved three times like a winding river of silver-white steel. Its point was perfectly straight and sharp, even though Sam doubted it had been sharpened since at least the time of the Men of Letters. Its red leather-bound hilt was woven through with thin strings of gold twisted into Celtic symbols that caught the light, making it glisten subtly as Sam picked it up. The pommel was embedded with a ruby engraved with one of the oldest symbols of protection: a five-pointed star bound in a circle wreathed in flame. The same symbol that was tattooed on Sam’s chest.

            Castiel’s eyes widened as he gazed at the stunning weapon. “Where on Earth did you find this?” he gasped.

            Sam’s mouth quirked briefly. “In the Bunker’s storage room. The Men of Letters had it tucked away in there for who knows how many years.”

            “The Anam blade.” Cas breathed the name with reverence.

            “Yep. And I need it blessed. The ground too. Would you mind?”

            Still staring at the entrancing knife, Cas nodded. “Of course.”

            “Thanks. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll ... then we’ll get started.”

            Casting a final glance at the demon, Sam walked out of the dungeon and headed for the chapel.

            Nerves began to gnaw inside him. Anxiety and fear curled like a pair of poisonous snakes in his stomach and he placed a bracing hand to his abdomen, trying to steady the sudden nausea. This had to be done, he thought firmly, and being nervous about it was only gonna make it worse.

            The snakes ignored him.

            The Bunker’s chapel was smaller than Sam’s bedroom. There was no alter, though crucifixes hung by the dozens across the unpainted walls. Four short pews stood in perfect alignment, leaving only a small gap to their right to allow visitors to file into the small, hallowed room.

            There was nothing in the chamber to suggest it was anything more than a place to store crucifixes – no stained glass windows illuminated from behind, no tabernacle, no fount of holy water. The only reason Sam – and, he presumed, the Men of Letters before him – called it ‘the chapel’ was because of its inexplicably warm and comforting atmosphere. It had the same welcoming feel to it that Sam had come to associate with hospital chapels: those that knew true, heartfelt and sincere prayers, usually born of love and beseeched on behalf of others. Perhaps, given their grim work, the Men of Letters had included this small anteroom as an oasis from the sorrow and helplessness their job engendered. Perhaps the architect had been religious.

            Either way, Sam was relieved to sink into the third pew from the door, facing the largest and simplest-looking crucifix. Taking a deep breath and willing his stomach to unclench, Sam blessed himself.

            For the second time in his life, Sam Winchester knelt in against hard, cold wood in a place of worship and wondered if he truly could be forgiven the unforgivable.

            “I, uh ... I’ve done a lot of wrong this year,” he began, keeping his voice low as though fearing being overheard. He didn’t know to whom his words were directed; the only angel who cared about him was downstairs with his demon brother. He doubted God was listening. Even so, he stared down at his clasped hands and whispered his confession.

            “I’ve killed innocent people. Tortured them. I’ve lied. Cheated. I’ve stolen. I made a deal with a demon. I’ve turned my back on my friends.” He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. Jodi had left him so many voicemails. His response had been to chuck his phone. He clasped his hands tighter, watching his knuckles whiten.

            “I’ve tricked people into helping me, and in doing so, a lot of them died.” He sniffed as tears began to form in his eyes. “I don’t even remember their names. I kil –” The words caught in his throat and he closed his eyes against their weight. “I killed my friend Kevin.” He clenched his clasped hands together as the old nightmare played itself behind his scrunched up eyes and he hung his head and shook in the half-light. He had done so much wrong.

            With a great sniff, he continued, his voice barely audible and the words contorted by his constricting throat.

            “But the worst thing I’ve done,” he choked, feeling his nails bite into the backs of his hands, “is let my brother become a demon. I let him become his worst nightmare. The thing we both hate more than anything. I – I let his eyes turn black.” Tears escaped his closed eyes and ran down his cheeks as though trying to escape the shame and guilt that was consuming him. In all this time, he’d never spoken these thoughts aloud. He hadn’t had anyone to speak them to. They had swirled and festered deep inside him like a poisoned storm. Although he had faced some of these black thoughts in the hospital, their strength still surprised him.

            “If I had just stayed with him, i-if I hadn’t pushed him away –” He took a deep, ragged breath, opening his eyes and staring at the huge, wooden crucifix on the wall before him, begging it to understand. “But I was so angry. And I wanted to hurt him. So I sent him away, and he got hurt. Hurt bad. Because I didn’t take care of him. Of my big brother.”

            He hung his head, tears leaping from his lashes to the grey floor below. Tiny suicidal droplets.

            “My brother. I let him down. I didn’t look out for him. He’s always had my back and I let him die.

            “I couldn –” He faltered. “I couldn’t get there in time. And I couldn’t bring him back, I wasn-wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t strong enough. And since then, all I’ve done has been evil. I deluded myself into thinking the ends justified the means, that if I could just bring Dean back, all the pain I’d caused would be forgotten. But it’s not.”

            He shook silently in the near darkness of the long-abandoned chapel. The walls he had painstakingly built around his conscience were crumbling down and he couldn’t bare it. All these things he had done. How could the ends possibly justify such inhuman means? How could he be forgiven for all the hurt he had caused? If Dean were himself now, if he were here, he would be so disappointed. He’d be so angry at him.

            “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. The whispered words were choked by shame, shaking in time to his trembling shoulders.

            But Dean would forgive him – he knew it. Because he would understand. Just as Sam understood that all the pain and terror Dean had caused over the last year wasn’t really his fault. His Dean would never stand by while demons murdered untold innocents. His Dean would fight with everything he had to save all those people who neither knew nor cared what it cost the Winchesters.

            If Dean could see him now, shaking with silent sobs, hunched over and tear-stained, Sam knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t forgive his little brother. Dean would go to the ends of the earth to save his Sammy pain. And when he returned, battered and bleeding, he would smile that indestructible smile and shrug his shoulders and tell Sam that it had been nothing, that it didn’t hurt, that he was family, end of story.

            A small smile twisted Sam’s salt-wetted lips as he pictured it. Dean would forgive him, no matter how hard it might be.

            Sam just needed to get him back. He needed his big brother back to make everything okay again.

            They kept each other human, and now it was Sam’s turn to remind his brother who he truly was. A good man. A righteous man. A caring, gentle soul who would rip wild hellhounds apart to save someone he cared about, then laugh off the deed as though anyone could’ve done it.

            Taking a series of deep breaths, Sam waited for his emotions to calm. Dean needed him to be focused now. To bring him back. He was Dean’s only chance, and he would not fail him again.

            Sam blessed himself and wiped his tears from his face and chin. He felt drained, and yet also oddly light. Cleansed, even. He remembered the sensation from trying to cure Crowley, and so assumed his brief confession had, miraculously, worked.

            Before he stood up to leave, Sam whispered two fervent words into the impassive stillness.

            “Thank you.”


	47. How to Save a Soul

            Cas’s angry voice stopped abruptly as Sam returned to the dungeon. Dean was smiling smugly, though the tautness of his jaw and the set of his shoulders betrayed his anger and unease.

            Sam’s chest puffed out as he took a deep breath. “You ready, Cas?”

            “Ready,” the angel said as he handed Sam the Anam blade, hilt first.

            “Oh come on, Sam!” Dean groaned. “We’ve been through this! That fancy pig-sticker isn’t going to magically” – he waved his bound hands satirically – “make the cure work – you already know it’s a dud. C’mon, man, why bother?”

            Sam ignored him. “Hold him down, Cas.”

            As Cas braced his arm against the complaining demon, Sam clamped a hand firmly just above Dean’s bound wrist, noting as he did so that it was no longer broken. Courtesy of Cas, no doubt. The Mark of Cain cast a tiny shadow against the pale skin as Sam twisted the healed arm, forcing the brand to turn toward the ceiling.

            As he gripped the hilt of the Anam blade more firmly, Sam took another deep breath, letting it _whoosh_ out of him in a gush.

            “This is gonna hurt, Dean,” he warned, not lifting his gaze from the ugly symbol on his brother’s forearm. Dean spat out a probably smartass response, but Sam wasn’t listening. He needed to concentrate. What he was about to do could not be undone. Not with this blade.

            Holding his brother’s arm tightly, Sam placed the point of the ancient knife to the right of the first curved island of the design, about an inch away from the raised skin of the Mark. Angling the blade carefully, Sam pressed – hard. He felt the muscles in Dean’s arm shift as his hand curled into a tight fist. Blood swelled around the tip and trickled down Dean’s arm and the demon snarled in pain. Keeping his hand steady, Sam drew a deep diagonal line through the Mark, ending it several centimeters beyond the bottom left tip of the brand. Ignoring Dean’s cursing, Sam drew an identical line from the upper left corner of the Mark to the bottom right, forming a bloody top-heavy X through the skin.

            Dean began to fight against Cas’s iron hold as the Mark began to burn a bright orange-red. His stomach churning unpleasantly, Sam drew another deep line of red, connecting the top of the X across the Mark of Cain. The Mark burned more brightly, like an angry coal. Dean thrashed in earnest, snarling and cursing as Cas held him tightly immobile.

            Holding his breath, Sam connected the bottom left tip of the X to a point centered directly above the flat top of the Mark, then quickly mirrored the bleeding cut with the other bottom of the X, finishing the five-pointed star. The Mark’s burning light shifted slightly under the leaking red lines, like lightning shifting behind storm clouds in slow motion.

            Dean howled. The sound cut through Sam as easily as the knife cut through his brother.

            Determinedly not looking at Dean, and carefully tuning out whatever words he spat so viciously in Sam’s direction, he tilted the Anam blade again and made one final, deep cut. Blood beaded and flowed in a circle that connected the five points of the star.

            _There,_ Sam thought, straightening as Dean’s head thrashed from side to side in obvious agony. _A perfect miniature Devil’s Trap._

            Still studiously not looking at Dean, Sam gestured to Cas. “Okay, Cas. You’re up.”

            Sam came to stand beside Cas and replaced his arm holding Dean back against the chair as the angel took Sam’s place at Dean’s side.

            “You remember the words?” Sam queried.

            Cas nodded as he pulled his sleeve up slightly to free his hand. Unlike Sam, Cas glanced at Dean as he laid his hand over the demon’s bloody forearm, steeling himself. The angel closed his eyes as he began reciting the spell in perfect Enochian. The celestial words wove their singular magic into and around the deep cuts. A warm light glowed from under Cas’s palm.

            Dean bucked under Sam’s arm, his head pressing hard against Sam’s shoulder as he screamed. Sam closed his eyes, wishing he were deaf. Unable to block out his brother’s pain, Sam focused minutely on the sound of Cas’s voice weaving the containment spell. When he judged Cas was nearing the end of the incantation, Sam reopened his eyes and watched the angel’s hand. A deep, bright orange-red light was seeping through the blood and flesh, shining under Cas’s firm grip. The warm white light tinged with palest blue rose from under the angel’s palm, fighting for dominance over the Mark’s bloody gleam.

            As Castiel’s voice rose, adding power to the final syllables of the spell, his light intensified, obliterating the Mark’s. Dean jerked sharply in Sam’s grip and his head fell forward onto Sam’s arm and he stilled.

            Cas took a step back, staring uncertainly down at his bloodied hand. Sam cautiously drew back from the unconscious Dean and came to stand beside his friend. He clapped a hand on Cas’s back.

            “Good job, buddy. That’s step one done.”

            Cas returned Sam’s feeble grin. Together, their gaze turned to Dean’s right forearm.

            The bloodied Devil’s Trap was no longer red and bleeding. Each line Sam had carved now bore the pearly-white appearance of old scar tissue. The Mark retained its reddish colour, but it was now held captive in the engraved Devil’s Trap. The Enochian spell had also added another element: the circle enclosing the star and Mark was now wreathed in that looked like whitish flame, making the symbol lying over and through the Mark of Cain look like a wilder version of Sam’s tattoo.

            “Is that it?” Cas asked quietly.

            Sam compared the two brands to the image Death had imprinted in his mind. “I think so. It looks right, and we did it just the way he said to.”

            “It just seems too ... simple.”

            Sam’s eyebrows rose. “I know what you mean. But I trust Death.” He frowned briefly at the absurdity of that sentence. “That should contain the Mark’s power and stop it affecting Dean.”

            “Should?” Cas repeated skeptically.

            Sam shot him a glance. “Yeah, should.”

            Cas leaned forward, inspecting Dean. “Do you think he’s alright?”

            Sam sighed. “I sure hope so. There’s a long way to go. It’s only gonna get worse for him.”

            “Speaking of.” Cas sighed, picking up two syringes from the table and handing a plastic one to Sam. “We shouldn’t delay.”

            Sam took the syringe with a curt nod. “You first.”

            Cas rolled up his left sleeve and sunk the tip of the large syringe into the crook of his arm. As he pulled the plunger back, swirling blue-tinged Grace flowed into the waiting cavity. He extracted the tip and stepped forward, closer to Dean.

            “Grace of the angel ...” he muttered to himself as he pierced the skin of Dean’s neck and pressed the plunger all the way down.

            Dean twitched and shivered as the Grace thrummed through him, but his eyes stayed close and his head remained hanging over his shoulder.

            Cas looked to Sam. “Your turn.”

            Sam copied Cas, drawing his confessed blood into the syringe.

            “Blood of the brother,” he heard himself saying as he injected it into Dean’s unbranded arm.

            Dean’s eyebrows twitched and his arm shivered slightly, as though trying to dislodge a fly.

            Sam looked down at his watch, marking the time.

            “One.”


	48. Trapped

            Dean grimaced. He felt hungover. Only, this hangover seemed to be concentrated on his right arm. Groggily, he opened his eyes and stared down at the unfamiliar scar covering the Mark. What the hell?

            Blinking himself back to full awareness, Dean looked around.

            Ah. The dungeon. Right.

            Sam and Cas were each sitting on a chair just beyond the outer ring of the iron Devil’s Trap, both staring off into space. Hm. Maybe it was boring waiting to force unwanted blood into a guy.

            Dean stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, causing the metal collar to scrape uncomfortably against his collarbone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam snap out of his stare and tap Cas’s arm to alert him.

            “Dean? You okay?”

            Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Then he remembered he was chained like a dog in a windowless pit essentially being force-fed poison and rolled them anyway. “Oh yeah, I’m golden,” he said, his tone dripping with heavy sarcasm.

            “Don’t worry, Dean. Just over six hours and you’ll be you again.”

            Dean glared at Sam. His smile failed to hide his doubt and anxiety. “Will I now? Just like last time, huh, Sam?”

            “No. Not like last time. This cure’s different.”

            “I can see that,” Dean said in mock astonishment, nodding towards the scar that stung and burned on his skin. “You drew on me.”

            “It’ll contain the Mark. Stop it ... affecting you.”

            _What? Contain the Mark?_ Dean swallowed against the sudden wave of anxiety. Was that what he was feeling? That strange, disconnected, incomplete sensation as though he had forgotten something crucial? Was the Mark truly cut off from him?

            Hiding his worry with a confident smirk, Dean leant his head back and looked at his brother. “Well, now, Sam. Look at you, calm and sure. Research finally pay off, did it?”

            “Kinda.”

            “Kinda? Yeah, no, that’s not cryptic at all. How ’bout you angelface?” he said brightly, turning his attention to Cas. “You tell him how to make the nasty Mark go bye-bye?”

            Cas’s expression remained cool but his eyes showed his anger. “No.”

            Dean leant forward slightly, inviting the angel to elaborate. He didn’t. “Well, that’s really informative, thanks, Cas.” Cas clenched his jaw.

            Eager to buy himself time to figure a way out of the iron Devil’s Trap – not to mention the collar and too-tight ropes – Dean looked around the dungeon. He had to admit, it looked different from this point of view. More intimidating. He could feel the warding pressing against him like a hand hovering over his skin. Suppressing a shiver, his eyes fell on Cas.

            “Tell me, Cas,” he began conversationally. “Were your wings always black or is it just these new ones didn’t come in angel blue?”

            Sam’s head snapped around to look at Cas. “Your wings are black?” he asked.

            “Yes. Does that surprise you?”

            “No, well ... It’s just I always assumed angels had white wings.”

            Cas and Dean chuckled in unison. Sam glanced between them, and for a moment it was almost like the old days, teem free will joking in some motel room.

            Dean gave himself a firm mental shake. These were not his friends. These were his captors.

            “No, Sam. Every angel’s wings are as unique as their face. Their true face, that is. Mine have always been mostly black with flecks of what you’d probably call chestnut brown. Although,” he continued, glancing behind him to the tips of the enormous wings Sam couldn’t see, “these wings you gave me have white-tipped primary feathers.” He smiled at Sam. “I think they look quite nice this way.”

            “Hold on, hold on,” Dean interrupted. “What do you mean ‘new wings Sam gave you’? Since when is Sam Cameron McCarthy?”

            “Who?” Sam asked, puzzled.

            Dean opened his mouth to answer scathingly, but Cas beat him to it.

            “Morgan Freeman’s character in _Dolphin Tale_. He plays a prostheticist. I think the demon’s implying –”

            “‘The demon’? What, I don’t get a name now?”

            Cas turned his cold glare on Dean. “No.”

            “Hey, Featherboy, if there’s something you wanna say –”

            “Stop!” Sam barked, taking a step between them. “We don’t want to make this harder than it already is,” he said in a low voice, mostly to Cas. “Just ... let him make his jokes.”

            He turned to Dean. “Yeah, I got Cas new wings, using an old – a really old – ritual Death told me about.”

            “Death?”

            “Yep. He’s been very helpful.”

            “Death?” Dean said again, even more skeptically.

            “Yep.”

            “Death wanted Cas, former vengeful god Cas, to be juiced up again?”

            Sam shrugged. “It was part of the deal.”

            Dean leant forward. “What deal?”

            “He told me how to cure you – and Cas. In return, I help him out with something.”

            “‘Something’? What ‘something’?”

            “That’s not important right now.”

            Irritated by the whole answer-leads-to-more-unanswered-questions direction the conversation had taken, Dean lapsed into brooding silence, trying to ignore the dull throbbing burn on his arm.

            A few sullen minutes later, Sam broke the silence. “Can you really see Cas’s true face?” he asked Dean, glancing between him and Cas.

            “Well, yeah, when I do this.” Dean blinked and looked back at Sam through black eyes.

He bristled slightly under Dean’s gaze. “What does he look like?”

            Dean turned his black eyes on the angel. The same shifting blue-white light coursed and swirled through Cas as it had done in Maalik, but Cas’s light was brighter, more vibrant. It hurt Dean’s eyes to look at him for too long. The features Dean could discern were finer than Maalik’s, maybe a bit more even, too. Dean supposed, as far as angels went, Cas probably wasn’t the most hideous in Heaven. He answered truthfully, “Ugly as balls.”

            Sam made a noise somewhere between a cough and a snort of laughter while Cas looked somehow both offended and disinterested.

            “Ugly?”

            “Hella ugly,” Dean emphasized.

            “But he’s an angel! They’re all meant to be, I dunno, beautiful, right?” He turned to Cas for confirmation.

            “We’re more frightening than beautiful to humans, but you’re right: there’s a reason we have always been depicted as attractive creatures.”

            “And fat babies?” Dean asked in a deadpan voice.

            “That image suits cherubs well enough,” Cas retorted. He turned to Sam. “He considers me ugly because he’s a demon and I’m an angel and we’re hard-wired to hate each other, no matter the physical appearance of our vessels. That’s why he” – he jerked his head toward Dean – “looks nothing short of sickening to me.”

            “Right back atcha, Feathers.”

            Sam looked uncertainly between them. “You have a demon’s face,” he muttered quietly to Dean.

            “Well ... _yeah_. I thought that’d be kinda obvious. Came with the eyes.”

            “I just ... hadn’t realised.”

            Dean snorted, shifting his weight slightly, trying to twist his right arm enough to press the burning brand into the slightly cooler arm of the chair. He couldn’t. “Nice one, Sherlock. You’ve only been chasing me, for what, a year? That’s not embarrassing at all.”

            Sam gave Dean a withering look just as his watched beeped shrilly. He glanced down at it, then gestured to Cas. “Hour’s up.”

            Without another word, Cas snatched up his syringe and drew a measure of swirling Grace into it, then stepped toward Dean.

            Dean’s breathing quickened as the angel came closer. He tried futilely to retreat away from the oncoming needle, back into the chair, but it was hopeless. The needle pierced his skin and the Grace poured into his veins like molten magma. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dean growled, screwing his eyes tight shut as he waited for the burning to stop. Eventually it did lessen, but he could still feel it push through his blood like thick oil.

            He gave his head a tight shake and looked up in time to see Sam step forward, holding a smaller syringe filled with blood.

            “Aw, come on!” he complained as Sam set the point to his arm and pressed firmly on the plunger. “Aaaargh!”

            The blood felt like acid. Dean looked down to the tiny dot of red where the needle had been and was surprised not to see steam curling up from the puncture. His blood sizzled as Sam’s confessed taint chased the Grace through his veins. Dean grunted, panting as the sizzling, too, faded into a more manageable background throb.

            He heard Sam speak somewhere above him.

            “Three.”

            Dean closed his eyes and let out a long, monotonous groan. This was gonna _suck_.


	49. Five

            The fifth round of injections elicited louder groans of pain and more violent shivers from Dean. He shook in the chair, shaking his head wildly and letting out deep, bestial grunts of pain. His face was flushed and covered in beads of sweat. When the seizure finally ended, more slowly than the previous four, he slumped against his bonds, his fingers twitching intermittently.

            Sam sat several feet away, sadly watching his brother suffer. Cas had excused himself some time before, leaving a syringe full of Grace. Sam supposed it was harder for him; he had been so busy in Heaven, he hadn’t had time to get used to the idea of a demonic Dean. Hell, Sam had been on his tail all year and he had only recently realised the full extent of the change. He’d thought.

            Dean was panting heavily, his breath wheezing slightly in the aftermath of the treatment. As real as it looked, Sam kept a wary distance. He wasn’t taking any chances this time.

            “Dean?” he asked softly after a while.

            Dean grunted.

            “Do you want some water?”

            Grunt.

            Taking that as a yes, Sam snatched up a plastic bottle from the table and unscrewed it. Stepping into the Trap, he held it up for Dean. It took Dean a few moments to raise his head.

            He looked exhausted. Every blink was slow and his jaw hung open as though he hadn’t the strength to keep his mouth closed. Still taking unusually deep breaths, Dean leant his head back and let Sam tilt the cool water down his throat.

            He drank nearly the whole bottle before he nodded for Sam to withdraw it.

            “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

            Grunt. That one sounded more like a ‘no’.

            Sam returned to his chair and chose a new intersection of the iron Trap to pretend to stare at, while stealing occasional glances at Dean.

            “Hey, Sam ...” Dean groaned a while later. His voice was hoarse and sounded the way it did when he had a particularly vicious hangover.

            “Yeah, Dean?”

            “Why’re you doing this?” He raised his head to stare at Sam, looking wearily disappointed.

            Sam startled slightly. “Why? Why d’you think? You’re my brother.”

            “‘Never give up on family’?” Dean quoted. “Is that it?”

            “Yeah.”

            A pause.

            “So what made you start giving a crap about that now?”

            “What?” Sam frowned.

            “Well, it’s just,” Dean began, “that didn’t seem to matter much to you when I was stuck in Purgatory, did it? Or when you told me we couldn’t be brothers anymore.”

            “Hey!” Sam said sharply. “You know I was lying.”

            “Were you, though? I mean, come on, Sam. Our whole lives all you’ve ever wanted is to be away from your family. Especially me. You always leave. For Stanford, for dogs, for chicks. I gave you your chance. Ever notice how far away from you I stayed? I even kept my demons from sniffing your way, left you in peace and now ... this.”

            “Dean. You know that’s not true.”

            Dean laughed. “I do, do I? Look, Sam, I’m not saying I’m broken up about it. To be honest, I’d’ve been fine ’n’ dandy never seeing your overgrown self ever again. I’m just curious why you’re going to so much trouble to save someone you hate.”

            Sam bit his lip, smiling a humourless smile. He wasn’t going to fall for this again. This was just the demon trying to distract him, find a way out. “Do you remember when you went to Hell, Dean?”

            Dean pretended to think for a moment. “Which time?”

            “The first time,” Sam clarified dryly. “When you sold your soul to save me.”

            Dean looked off to the side. “Rings a bell.”

            “You remember how we spent that last year?”

            Dean didn’t answer.

            “We spent it trying to find a way out for you. Or at least, I did. I searched for a year for a way to get you out of your deal. And when you were gone ... Nothing really changed.”

            “Except that you were nailing Ruby and playing demon blood beer pong.”

            “I kept trying to get you out.”

            “Yeah, well, bang up job you did there, huh?”

            Sam scowled. “I don’t hate you, Dean. Never have.”

            Dean scoffed.

            “You don’t believe me?”

            He shrugged. Sam allowed silence to fall between them, unwilling to try and convince the demon of the truth. Once Dean was back, if he needed to, he’d tell him. He’d make him understand.

            “You remember something else about the year you came back from Hell?” Sam asked at last.

            Grunt.

            “When I was hooked on the demon blood, following Ruby, going after Lilith ... You remember what you did?”

            Dean shrugged. “Ate cheeseburgers and watched _Casa Erotica?”_

            “You fought for me, Dean. You fought, all year, to keep me human. As sure as I was that what I was doing was the right thing, what I needed to do, who I needed to be, you fought for me. You fought to keep me human.”

            “Lemme guess,” Dean drawled, sounding bored. “That’s just what you’re doing now?”

            “Yep. We keep each other human, Dean, you said so yourself. Now it’s my turn.”

            “Funny, that. You sure you’re just not feeling guilty?”

            “Guilty?”

            “Yeah. I mean, if it weren’t for you, I would never have gotten the Mark of Cain. Never would’ve been killed, never would’ve been a demon. Hell, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even believe in demons and angels and ghosts.”

            “What are you talking about?” Sam asked, staring at his brother. Fear flickered inside him.

            “Well, think about it. You were never born, I never become a hunter. My mother would be alive – I’d probably be some firefighter or doctor or, hell, an actor, who knows. Point is, I’d be free and I’d be safe. Not to mention happy. Probably have a family of my own by now too. Wife. Kids.”

            “You’re blaming me for being born?”

            “You’re blaming me for being a demon – why not blame you for making me one!”

            Sam clenched his jaw, wrestling with an anger and a grief he hadn’t felt for some time. “This isn’t you talking,” he said at last, getting to his feet and neatening the syringes on the table unnecessarily, keeping his back to Dean.

            “Oh, you think so, huh? ‘Cause maybe this is me finally saying what your dear brother never had the balls to!”

            Sam bowed his head on the pretense of inspecting a syringe. It was just the demon. Demons lie. _He knows this will hurt you. Just ignore it._

            “Y’know, for the first time in my life, I’m seeing things clearly. For the first time I’m not shying away from the truth! And the truth is, Sam, that of all the evil things I’ve faced, the demons and the angels and the archangels, the werewolves and ghosts and the vampires and witches – of all of those evil sons of bitches I’ve spent my entire life fighting – you are hands down the worst of all of them.”

            Sam was clenching his teeth together so hard it hurt.

            “Not only did you basically murder my mother” – Sam winced – “but ever since then you’ve just gone through life like a goddamn wrecking ball, destroying everything you touch. Honestly, I’m amazed I’ve lasted this long. And that’s only because when all this started, you were just an ‘innocent’ baby and I was four, which, to Dad, meant old enough to be trained and brainwashed into being your protector – all because he was so damaged and hurt from not being able to protect his own family!”

            Sam’s knuckles were turning white around the syringe. _Just ignore it, just ignore it, just -_

            “All my life,” Dean continued, “I’ve always put you first – always. I never had friends because of you. But you had college. You had Jess. You had all these dreams of better things while I was stuck there trying to explain to your father how you’d run off again.”

            “Shut up,” Sam whispered, not looking up. “You don’t mean this.”

            Dean barked a laugh. “The hell I don’t, _little brother._ You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say all this. How many times I stayed quiet while you bitched about how Dad raised us – except that Dad didn’t raise you, Sam! _I_ did. I was always there for you, I _always_ had your back and what did you do in return? You left. You bitched. You had all these issues of being a freak and an abomination, as if you were the only one who felt like a mistake, like the world would be so much better of if you were dead.

            “Well, you know what? You were right.”

            Sam’s hands began to shake. He pressed them into the table so Dean wouldn’t notice.

            “But I never let you go, did I, little brother?” Dean sneered as Sam’s heart broke. “Nah, I could never do that. Hell, I sold my own soul ‘cause I couldn’t bear to see you dead. What the hell kind of dependency crap is that! I literally couldn’t live with myself without you. You sucked the life right out of my life, Sam - if you’d never been born, I could have had my own life, my own family, my own dreams! But instead I got you. And I’m still paying for it.”

            The table wasn’t strong enough to hide Sam’s shaking anymore. His entire torso was trembling from the pain inside his chest.

            “You never had a brother, Sam. Just a shield.”

            Sam’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. _He doesn’t mean that,_ he chanted to himself, _he doesn’t mean that, it’s just the demon, he_ doesn’t _mean that!_

            “Well, now that shield is broken, you get that? Hell, it’s in splinters! You’re so eager to bring your precious brother back – why, I can’t even understand – but he’s gone, Sam. He’s been gone for some time – and guess what? He’s not coming back. He’s dead, you hear me? He’s dead!”

            “No!” Sam roared, slamming the syringe down and rushing at Dean, pointing a finger at him as though it were a sword. “I saw you. I saw you in there, Dean, I know you’re still in there.” He grabbed at Dean’s chest and held up the small amulet. “You’re in there.”

            Dean stared at the little horned head for a second before lifting his gaze to meet Sam’s.

            “Well, let’s say you’re right. That dear old Dean is still in here somewhere. Say that’s true. Then think about it, Sam. All the things I’ve done this last year. All the souls I’ve destroyed, the people I’ve killed. You know there was a baby? Stabbed it right through the face.” Disgust coiled around Sam’s stomach. “And I _enjoyed_ it,” Dean hissed. “If your brother is in here, how do you think he’s doing? This is a guy who blames himself for goddamn _Firefly_ being cancelled! How exactly do you think he’s gonna handle everything he’s seen his own hands do? All that blood, Sam. You really think he could even survive the _idea_ of it, let alone the memories? That Dean is _weak_ , Sam. He’d sooner kill himself than face what I’ve done and you know it. So I ask you: what’s the point? You’re bringing him back just to kill him. Sounds like hate to me.”

            Sam’s fists were trembling.

            “You think you’re curing him, Sam?” Dean repeated as Sam withdrew a step. “You’re killing him.”         

            Sam gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be calm, commanding his voice to be steady. “My brother –” He tried again. “My brother is a thousand times stronger than you. You are _nothing_ compared to him. And he _will_ survive this. And when it’s over and he’s healed, he’s gonna thank me for burning every speck of black out of his eyes!”

            Sam’s watch beeped as though to emphasis his words and he glanced at it.

            He strode to the table and grabbed the Grace-filled syringe and a clean plastic one. He slammed the thick needle into Dean’s right arm, just outside the scarred symbol. Dean growled and groaned in pain, half-shouting as the Grace scorched through him. Breathing heavily, barely containing his anger and hurt, Sam shoved the smaller tip into his own arm, more forcefully than he had intended, and drew out another dose of blood.

            He held the syringe up in front of Dean’s face, forcing him to look at the dark burgundy liquid through eyes clouded with pain.

            “This is for Dean,” he spat, and plunged the consecrated blood into the demon’s neck.

            “Five.”

            He turned and left the dungeon, chucking the syringes in the direction of the table as Dean’s groans became full shouts of pain. He swung the door shut behind him without looking back.


	50. Whiskey

            Sam found Castiel sitting in the atrium staring idly at a bottle of scotch Sam didn’t remember buying. Heaving a great sigh, Sam collapsed into the chair beside him.

            “Can I offer you a refreshment?” the angel asked casually.

            “Leave the bottle, barkeep.”

            Smiling slightly, Cas poured a generous portion of the deep amber liquid into a glass and slid it across the table to Sam. “I take it the demon has been fighting back.”

            “Yep.”

            “I’m sorry. Siblings usually have an uncanny ability to know the other’s pressure points. I imagine that what a demonic one would come out with would be quite hurtful.”

            “Yep.”

            Cas glanced around. “Would you ... like a hug?” he asked awkwardly.

            Sam chuckled. “I’m good for now, Cas, thanks.”

            “You just want Dean.”

            Exhaling deeply through his nose, Sam nodded.

            “It’s not long now.”

            Nod.

            A pause.

            “Are you going to tell me yet what your part of the deal with Death is?”

            A longer pause.

            “One problem at a time, Cas.”

            Sam could almost feel the angel’s glare burning the side of his face. Unwilling to be grilled on the subject, he distracted Cas with a question. “When I summoned you here to give you the new Grace, you were freaking out. What was happening up in Heaven?”

            Cas’s heavy sigh made him look round at his friend. “Heaven is ... well. It’s not really Heaven anymore.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “You remember those angel murders I told you about?”

            Sam nodded that he did.

            “Well. I was right. Metatron was behind it. But it was ... bigger than I had thought. He was stealing the angels’ Graces.”

            Sam gulped. “So ... he’s more powerful now?”

            “Much. I don’t know for sure if he got to the last of the angels still on Earth, but every angel in Heaven that hadn’t pledged their loyalty to Metatron was murdered for their power.”

            “Except you.”

            “Yes. Except me. And that’s really only because of your good timing. Metatron was standing over me with his angelblade raised. Another two seconds and I’d be dead.”

            Sam was suddenly immensely grateful he hadn’t delayed in preparing the summons.

            “I’m glad I didn’t decide to catch a movie first, then,” he joked, trying in vain to brighten Cas’s expression. The corner of his mouth did twitch slightly, but not enough to be called a smile. “So ... I’m guessing Metatron is the new boss upstairs, huh?”

            “Very much so. I don’t know how many Graces he imbibed, or what else he might have powering him, but, Sam.” Cas turned his suddenly ancient eyes on Sam. “He’s more powerful than ever. More powerful than I was when I had the souls of Purgatory. He has all the souls of Heaven powering him. And if what I saw in the last days up there weren’t just horrific illusions meant to flush out those who weren’t loyal to Metatron, he has ripped the very fabric of the heavens apart. The souls’ paradises are bleeding into one another.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means that they won’t be at peace anymore. Every good memory that makes up their heaven will now be punctuated with millions of other soul’s heaven-memories. The confusion it’ll cause, the fear ... It’ll agitate the souls like molecules, generating even more energy. And Metatron is the sole receiver of it.”

            “So ... We’re screwed.”

“Yep.”

            “He’s basically god?”

            “If not more powerful. It’s hard to say. Never met God.”

            “And I’m guessing Heaven’s still closed to the Veil?”

            “Probably. But,” he added, frowning slightly, “now I come to think of it, it’d make sense for X to reopen it. Take all that power for himself.”

            “X?”

            “Yeah, that’s what he calls himself. Personally I still prefer Marv.”

            Sam snorted. “Marv the Great and Powerful.”

            Cas smirked. “The Eye of Marv.”

            “Marvie and Clyde.”

            “No wait, I got it,” Cas said, a real smile curving his lips now. “Professor Marv and his Marv-Men!”

            Sam laughed. “Fantastic Mr. Marv?”

            “Captain a-Marv-ica!”

            Laughter filled the room as Sam and Cas tried to outdo each other thinking up ridiculous names for one of, if not the, most powerful beings currently in existence.

            Eventually, as the whiskey lay forgotten, they ran out of franchises. Well, Sam did. Cas continued with ever more obscure references to stories Sam had never heard of, but swore were real. Sam stopped him on “Marv the Just.”

            As their laughter trickled into silence, Sam’s mood began to sink once more. “I should get back to him,” he said quietly to the whiskey bottle.

            “You’re doing the right thing, Sam.”

            Sam tried to smile but it felt alien on his lips. “I know.” He sighed. “But it feels ...” He couldn’t think of the right word.

            “I know,” Cas said softly.

            Sam felt Cas’s hand on his shoulder and looked up, making a slightly more successful attempt at smiling. “I’m glad you’re here, Cas.”

            The hand squeezed his shoulder gently. “Me too.”

            Sam’s watch beeped.

            “Time to give your brother his meds,” Cas announced in a tone of forced cheer.

            “Yep. Back to work.”


	51. Seven

            Dean was shuddering ceaselessly when they returned. His head was once again bowed, as though he was trying to curl in on himself. The chain of the collar was pulled taut, clinking faintly in time to his shivers.

            Cas went first, as usual. Dean cringed away from the needle to his neck like a trapped animal avoiding a hot poker. His snarls became cries of torment, and though his chest heaved with the force of each breath, his head did not lift.

            Sam pricked the crook of his arm for a sixth time. He looked like a junkie with all these track marks. Dean merely flinched when the needle pierced his forearm, pulling any slack out of the chain as he curled forward, shaking violently and wheezing with each heaving breath.

            “Sa-am ...”

            The choked whisper was so faint, so broken, for a moment Sam couldn’t believe it had come from his brother. “I’m here, Dean. I’m here.”

            He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed, feeling the very bones tremble.

            “Sa-am ... _plea-ease_ ...”

            Sam looked up at the ceiling, blinking quickly. He rubbed his brother’s back in small circles, but said nothing.

            “Sam ... i’ burns ... pleas –” A fit of fierce coughing consumed the rest of his words and Sam’s hand tightened over the shivering shoulder.

            Once the coughing had been replaced by deep, wheezing breaths, Sam took a few steps back and returned to his chair, casting a desperate look at Cas, whose eyes looked at tortured as Sam felt.

            Silence fell, but for Dean’s laboured breathing. After thirty-seven anxious minutes, Dean’s shudders finally subsided. His head raised minutely, his shadowed eyes searching.

            They settled on Sam.

            “You’re ... you’re selfish ... y’know that?” Dean panted, staring at Sam from under his sweat-drenched brow.

            Sam didn’t rise to the bait. “Save your energy, Dean.”

            Dean ignored him. “I was ... happy. For the first time in my life. And now ... rather ‘an let me be, you – you’re killing me. So you won’t be alone. Or g-guilty.” He spat a globule of bloody saliva onto the floor. “Pathetic.”

            Sam shook his head, smiling. “I know you don’t mean that. You may as well save your breath, Dean. I’m not gonna stop.”

            “Y-your gonna cure me?”

            “That’s right.”

            “‘Cause, what, I’m ... diseased?”

            “Yep.”

            “And what if I like the disease?” he hissed, leaning as far forward as the chain would allow.

            Sam exchanged a glance with Cas. “That doesn’t matter. You like being human more.”

            Dean’s laughter boomed through the dungeon, but was quickly suffocated by hacking coughing. “You think that? Really?”

            “I know it.”

            “How do you like being human, Sam? How do y-you like seeing Kevin die ev-every night? How d’you like counting corpses when you try to sleep? How d’you like waking up in the m... the middle of the night from nightmares of Hell and ... all the p-people y-you hurt ... killed ... huh?”

            Sam clenched his teeth. “It’s worth it.”

            Dean snorted. “Ha! Worth what? What exactly makes up f-for all that pain, Sam?”

            “My brother.”

            Dean smiled in disbelief, spitting another mouthful of blood onto the concrete.

            “My brother makes up for it. And Cas,” he said, gesturing to the angel. “And Garth, and Charlie, and Jodie, and Kevin and Bobby – all the friends I’ve made –”

            “Who’re dead,” Dean spat.

            “All the friends who have fought with me,” Sam continued, raising his voice to drown out the demon’s. “And all the lives I save. All the people who’re alive because of me. And yeah,” he added, knowing what Dean was about to snarl. “A lot of people have died because of me, too. And that haunts me, it does. But I still try. I still fight. I make a difference. I know my purpose. And I know that someone’s always got my back.

            “That’s why it’s all worth it.”

            Cas stepped forward to stand at his side, smiling proudly up at him.

            Dean let out a long-suffering groan. “What a load of bull.” He tried to straighten his back but didn’t seem able to uncurl himself fully. “As if that makes up for being a monster.”

            “Monster?” Cas scoffed. “That’s rich coming from you, demon.”

            Dean chuckled darkly. “First of all, look who’s talking, Mr. Almighty. Second, I’m just being true to who I am, doing what I do and doin’ it well. Sam, on the other hand.” He swiveled his head to glare at him. “You claim to be some great savior, that the means justify the ends. Well, what were those means, huh, Sam? How many people did you torture to death, not even caring whether or not they were a demon? How many people did you trick into helping you, no matter what it cost them, hm?”

            Dean slumped in the chair, the chains clanking. He glared at Sam, panting as he recovered from the effort of his accusations.

            “I heard what you did, Sam. You re... you really think your dear brother will be able t-to forgive you for all that?”

            “Yeah. He will.”

            Sam’s watch sounded for the seventh time. Without looking away from Dean, Sam picked up a syringe as Cas readied his own. “In just about an hour, I think.”

            Dean’s mask of bravado cracked as Cas stepped forward with the filled syringe. His breathing quickened and his gaze turned pleading.

            “For god’s sake, just kill me already! Stab me, cut my throat, why drag it out!”

            The sincerity Sam heard in the words made his stomach shiver with unease. Cas hesitated too, but for only a moment. He injected Dean in the neck, stepping back quickly as Dean was wracked by a new, violent seizure. Sam had to hold his bound arm to keep it still enough to add his half of the treatment. Once the plunger had forced the last drops of confessed blood into Dean’s veins, his head jerked back, his black eyes opened and he _screamed_.

            Sam had never heard his brother make a sound like that. It was beyond mere pain. It surpassed fear. It bounced off the hard concrete walls and pierced Sam to his very core. It didn’t even sound human. No living man or woman could ever produce a screech so chilling, so utterly consumed with agony and live to hear its echo. Sam doubted an animal could produce such a scream either.

            And yet, Sam recognised the sound. The darkest parts of his soul remembered it. He had made that sound in the Pit, when Lucifer had punished him. It was a scream beyond the skill of Hell.

            It was the sound of a soul breaking apart.     

            Even when his voice broke and his lungs were emptied, Dean’s posture remained unnaturally rigid, his mouth stretched wide in silent anguish. Finally, thankfully, with a slight shiver Dean passed out.


	52. Lustra

            Over half an hour later, Dean still hadn’t stirred. His breathing had finally found a wheezing rhythm that, although it couldn’t be called regular, was persistent. His head hung forward, his chin resting on his chest above the amulet. Sweat dripped from his forehead to the cold grey concrete below like an unreliable metronome.

            Sam had dragged his chair to the very edge of the Devil’s Trap. He would have settled inside it with a hand on his brother, but Cas hadn’t allowed it. He still seemed to fear a final surge of power and spite from Dean, and didn’t want Sam within reach.

            A crushing pain had settled over Sam’s chest. It felt almost as if his ribcage was bound again, but this time there was no relief from the weight he knew was caused by his brother’s suffering. And from the fact that he was responsible for it.

            Being warned that Dean might not survive the cure and ignoring it and trusting in his brother’s steadfast strength was entirely different from this side of the cure. Now his mind whirled in painful circles. _What if he dies? I won’t be able to bring him back, no one will. If the cure itself is this hard on him, how will he survive the aftermath? But I couldn’t leave him as a demon and the only other choice was to find a way to kill him ... I’d rather die than kill Dean. I had no choice. But what if he dies?_

            He had spoken these fears aloud to Cas but the angel could offer no comfort other than the reassurance that this chance, however painful or slim, was preferable to a black-eyed Dean.

            Sam wondered if this was how Dean had felt when he had convinced Death to return his soul, regardless of the warnings that Sam couldn’t take it. He suspected it was. How had Dean coped with it? This crushing doubt and fear? A final Hail Mary that could end his world or save it? Not for the first time, Sam marveled at his brother’s strength and faith in him.

            Watching the irregular, slight rise of Dean’s chest stirred a memory Sam hadn’t thought of in years. He almost chuckled as he remembered it. He cleared his throat. “Hey, Cas?”

            “Yeah?” The angel looked about as cheery as Sam felt.

            “Did I ever tell you about the time Dean got hurt on a hunt and Dad wasn’t around? When we were kids?”

            “No?” Cas shifted in his seat, inviting Sam to distract him with the story.

            “He was ... fifteen, I think. Maybe sixteen. He and Dad had gone off after a ...” He frowned as he tried to remember. “A ... vengeful spirit, yeah. Anyway, things were going fine – they’d found the bones and torched ‘em. But then, BAM!” He clapped his hands together, making Cas jump slightly. “Dean gets thrown right across the room, through the wall and falls half a storey into a lake. In Michigan – in winter. He probably broke through a layer of ice.

            “So Dad is totally freaked, he legs it down to the edge of the river, and Dean is somehow still awake, trying to keep his head above the water. He’s half made it to the shore, and Dad wades in and drags him out. I was waiting in this crummy little shack we’d holed up in – there were no motels for miles, this place was in the middle of nowhere. So Dad drives Dean home at, like, one-eighty miles an hour, and Dean’s shivering and trying to stay awake. Dad calls me and tells me to get a fire going in the old grate, and get all the towels and blankets we had and drag a mattress into the living room – Dean’s hurt.

            “So I’m already panicking on the other end of the line when he says that, and in my mind Dean’s, like, dying of some Tarantino-worthy gory wound. So when Dad arrives and carries in this dripping wet, shivering Dean who’s paler than snow, for a second I was relieved. Till I saw Dean’s face. He didn’t smile at me like he always did when he got back from a hunt hurt. He’d always let me know he was okay, but not this time. His eyes were half open and his breathing was so ragged and shallow, I thought he was gonna die right there in Dad’s arms.” Sam felt cold himself as he relived the memory.

            “What did you do?” Cas’s eyes were wide, drinking in the story.

            “Froze. But Dad snaps me out of it, makes me help get Dean’s clothes off so he’s just in his boxers and we wrap him up in, like, six towels and blankets so he could barely move. Dad laid him down beside the fire and told him he was gonna be fine now, that he just had to stay still and get warm. He told me to heat up some soup from a tin for him.

            “Anyway, once we’d convinced Dean to eat a few mouthfuls of Spicy Chicken and Noodle, he passed out. Then Dad stands up and says he’s gotta go finish the hunt, figure out what he missed. At which point,” Sam added, raising his eyebrows at Cas, “I basically explode. _‘How can you leave Dean like this?’, ‘what if he doesn’t wake up’_ , yelling at the guy for, like, a minute.

            “But then Dad goes –” Sam shifted his weight and imitated his father’s deep, commanding voice. _“‘You listen here, Sammy. I gotta go clean up my mess. There’s nothing I can do for Dean now, he’s out of danger, he’ll be fine by tomorrow, but right now I gotta go. I’m leaving you in charge of your brother. Take care of him,’_ he says. And Dad’s never said that to me in my life – it was always Dean who had to take care of me.” Sam smiled sadly.

            The corner of Castiel’s mouth curved in a small smile, brightening his serious expression for a moment. Sam’s widened at the sight, glad to be succeeding in distracting them both from the softly groaning Dean.

            “So Dad leaves without another word, grabbing an extra shotgun on his way. And I look over to Dean,” he continued, his head turning towards his unconscious brother. “And I’m terrified. I have no idea how to help him, and he looked so ... I dunno, young, maybe. But he was sleeping, and I just sat beside him and stared at him for like an hour.

            “When Dean does wake up, he’s coughing and groaning and somehow looks even paler. He asks where Dad is and I say he’s gone off to kill the ghost, and Dean just stares at me. _‘You let him go alone? Help me up, Sammy, I gotta go help him’._ But when he tries to sit up he cries out, and I start flapping around him, not knowing what to do. It turned out his shoulder was dislocated from going through the wall. Dad kept the painkillers in the Impala, so there was nothing I could do till he got back.”

            Sam gulped, his stomach twisting with the remembered fear.

            “So then Dean goes, _‘You’ll have to do it, Sammy. You’re gonna have to pop in back in.’_ And I’ve never done anything like that and I was so scared I was shaking almost as bad as Dean had been. But then Dean puts his good hand on my shoulder and he says, “‘ _Sammy, look at me. I know you can do this. I got no doubt. Just do as I tell you, okay?’”_

Cas nodded, smiling fully know at the thought of such an inexperienced and flummoxed Sam Winchester.

            “So I nod and he tells me to put one hand here and the other there on his shoulder,” he said, mimicking the old instructions, placing his hands around an imaginary brother. “And then he says, _‘When I count to three, you gotta push it back in, as fast as you can’_. He could feel my hands shaking on him, but he just turns to look at me and he, he gives me this smile.” Sam looked back to his brother, his eyes full of admiration. “This smile that says, _I know you can do this, Sammy, and it’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but it’s okay, you can do it_.

            “So he counts to three and I shut my eyes and yank his arm and it pops back into place with a crack and Dean yells in pain and I jump back, sure I’ve just broken something.

            “But then he flexes his arm, showing me how his fingers all move perfectly and his shoulder rotates just fine, smiling the whole time, even though I could see the pain in his eyes. I was still shaking so he gives me the biggest hug and says _‘Thank you, Sammy. You’re the best.’_

            “I’d never felt so grown up.

            “After that, Dean fell asleep, wrapped in all the blankets but one – he insisted I wrap myself up too ‘cause it was so cold. Of course, it was roasting in there, he just couldn’t feel it.

            “I don’t know how long it took Dad to come back, but I just remember sitting there for ages, just watching Dean sleep. I kept thinking how easily he could’ve died that night. If Dad hadn’t gotten to him in the lake fast enough, if he’d hit his head on the wall on the way down. If the heat in the Impala had been out, he could’ve died of the cold.”

            Cas remained silent, allowing Sam to tell the story at his own pace. The young Winchester’s eyes were unfocused, staring into memory.

            “But he didn’t. And I remember thinking, _‘Wow. Dean must be as strong as Dad. I bet he wasn’t even scared.’_ ” Sam chuckled. “Looking back on it now, he sure as hell was. But not for himself: for Dad. Whenever Dad went off on a hunt alone, Dean would hold his breath till he came home safe. Or, came home, at least.

            “When Dad finally did get home, it was hours after my bedtime and I was barely keeping my eyes open. Dad’s nose was bleeding and he was limping a little, but he went straight over to Dean and checked on him, taking his temp and tucking the blankets in around him. Then he gives me the biggest hug and says, _‘Thanks for taking care of him, Sammy. You did good.’_ ”

            Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat.

            “After that, Dean started teaching me more first aid. How to bandage up a bad cut, how to check for concussions, when to know to call for help, how to stitch up a wound ... By the time Dad started teaching me triage, I already knew it all. Dean’d already taught me.”

            Sam looked up at Cas. “He didn’t teach me what to do now.”

            Cas tilted his head, his eyes filled with compassion. After a moment’s hesitation, he got up and curled his arms gently around Sam’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. Sam grabbed on to Cas’s arm as if his life depended on it, trying to breathe normally.

            They remained holding onto each other for a long time, neither wanting to break the embrace, both needing the comfort of a friend’s arms helping hold themselves together.

            Too soon, too loudly, Sam’s watch beeped shrilly. For the last time.

            Breaking apart, both angel and hunter reached for a syringe. Cas went first, forcing his Grace into Dean’s blood to burn away what remained of the demon taint. Dean stirred, frowning slightly and moving his head away from the angel. When Sam pushed the plunger home for the last time, Dean jerked as though yanked by invisible ropes.

            Feeling an odd calm pass over him, Sam unsheathed Ruby’s knife from his belt and passed it over his left palm, leaving a line of thick, bright red. Gently pulling Dean’s head back, Sam began the spell that would either save his brother or kill him.

            Dean’s breathing quickened and his eyebrows twitched as the word-borne magic took effect. Sam felt excitement and fear rise in his chest, shattering the calm.

            “Hanc animam redintegra – lustra! _Lustra!”_

            Sam slapped his hand across Dean’s open mouth, and at the same time Dean’s black eyes opened, the world exploded.

            Sam was thrown backward as a great shockwave erupted from Dean, punching through the air like silent thunder. He hit the wall hard and crumpled to the floor, struggling to his feet immediately. Apart from a throbbing elbow, he wasn’t hurt. Cas had been thrown back almost to the door, but he too was getting to his feet, staring at the Devil’s Trap.

            The chair Dean had been tied to had shattered. Dean lay over the wreckage, convulsing violently, his black eyes staring up at the ceiling, foamy blood pouring from his mouth, making him gag and choke.

            Sam ran forward, snaking his arm behind Dean’s shoulders and scooping him up into his arms. He braced Dean against his chest, trying to support him through the vicious tremors. Dean’s breath was a ragged gurgle, and he seemed completely unaware of Sam’s arms wrapped tightly around him.

            Another, weaker concussion rippled out from Dean, ruffling Sam’s hair and thudding into his chest.

            “Dean?” he whispered, giving his brother a little shake.

            The black eyes didn’t move from the ceiling. They stared unblinkingly as Dean lay in Sam’s arms, unmoving save for his uncontrollable shudders.

            Sam looked frantically around at Cas. “What’s happening!”

            “Look!” Cas gasped, pointing to Dean.

            Sam whipped his head around and his eyes widened in amazement.

            The deep blackness that consumed Dean’s eyes was breaking up at the corners like melting ice. Smokey tendrils withered and shriveled away, slowly receding until the familiar, bright green eyes stared up at the ceiling.

            “Dean?”

            Dean blinked, looking confused and lost. His hazy eyes searched until they found Sam’s. A tiny, relieved smile curved Dean’s lips as he drank in the sight of his brother.

            “S-Sammy?” His breath hitched and the single word seemed to drain what little strength he had, but Sam beamed down at him, feeling a tear tickle his nose as it fell.

            “Hey, Dean,” he half-whispered, half-sobbed, feeling the first sincere smile in a year stretch across his lips.

            Dean’s smile widened slightly. But then his eyelids drooped, his eyes rolled back, and he went completely limp in Sam’s arms.


	53. Aftermath

            “Dean? DEAN!” Sam shook him wildly, but Dean’s head only lolled in his arms, completely unresponsive. _“DEAN!”_

            Nothing.

            “CAS!” The angel was already there, his trench coat whirling around him as he crouched on Dean’s other side. He pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow in concentration. Sam waited, hardly breathing, clutching his brother as though scared he would disappear.

            Cas flinched. He withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned, his eyes widening in horror as they gazed down at Dean.

            “Cas? Is he –”

            “He’s alive,” he whispered, sounding as though he was delivering far more grim news.

            “Then what’s – what happened?”

            “He’s ... I’m not sure, I ... I can’t heal him.”

            “What do you mean you can’t heal him? What’s wrong with him?”

            Cas looked up at Sam. “I ... I can’t be sure. His body feels healthy; I can’t sense anything that I shouldn’t. But he’s ... deeply unconscious. Deeply. His breathing is shallow and is heart rate is low.”

            “Well, what does that mean?” Sam asked, his patience draining as he held his brother to him.

            “I don’t know, Sam.”

            “Is he just unconscious ‘cause of the cure? He just needs some rest, right? It took a lot out of him.”

            “Yes, I expect that’s true.”

            Sam sensed a conjunction coming. “But?” he guessed warily.

            “But,” Cas confirmed, “I can feel something in him. Something ... wrong.”

            “Cas, if you don’t spit it out, I swear I’ll –”

            “I don’t know what it is, Sam!” Cas snapped, exasperated. “It feels like a kind of icy fire. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. It just feels wrong, unnatural. But it also feels familiar.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I think I need to touch Dean’s soul. Then I’ll be sure.”

            Sam blinked. “Touch his _soul?_ ” His voice sprang up an octave. “What the hell, Cas! Why?”

            “Do you remember when you were undertaking the Demon Trials?”

            “Yeah, vaguely!”

            “Whenever I touched you, I could feel something similar. And when your soul came back from the Pit – it feels like that too.”

            Sam swallowed hard. A horrible sinking feeling shivered through him. “You think his soul is ... what? Damaged?”

            “Yes. Badly.”

            Sam gulped again. “How bad?”

            “I can’t know unless I touch it.” Cas’s eyes were filled with sorrow and – Sam was horrified to see – fear.

            Sam thought for a moment. He knew an angel touching a human’s soul hurt. But more than that, it was a violation. God, Dean would _hate_ it.

            Tough.

            “Do it.”

            Sam maneuvered himself to the side, supporting Dean’s shoulders and resting his head against Sam’s chest. Digging the key from his pocket, he unlocked the padlock securing the collar and carefully pulled it off his brother’s neck. Deep scratches painted Dean’s throat a bright red, with darker patches of dried blood layered beneath the fresh. Sam threw the collar away and it _clank_ ed against the concrete before scraping to a halt.

            Cas was rolling up his sleeve, his face grim. “Hold him still,” he ordered. “This will hurt.”

            Swallowing his fear, Sam wrapped his arms around his brother’s chest, pinning him in a tight embrace.

            Throwing Sam a determined glance, Cas snaked his fingers into Dean’s stomach, just below the ribcage. Dean bucked in Sam’s arms, his brow furrowing in pain as Cas sunk his arm in deeper. A dim light shone around Cas’s arm, far dimmer than Sam remembered a soul being. Dean jerked again, but still he made no sound. Sam gripped him tighter, screwing his eyes shut, wishing there was a way for him to feel the pain instead.

            After a few seconds that passed in an age, Cas withdrew his hand. He looked like he was about to be sick. Bracing his hands on his folded knees, he took several deep breaths.

            “Well?” Sam asked timidly, terrified of the answer.

            “It’s bad.”

            “Cas.” Sam waited until the angel looked up at him. “Tell me.”

            Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Cas spoke. “Dean is soulsick.”

            Sam stared. “Soulsick?”

            “Yes. It seems the cure ...” Cas heaved a great sigh and looked up at Sam, gathering his thoughts so as to explain the situation to the younger Winchester. “The cure ripped the demon from Dean’s soul the way you’d burn away a tattoo – only far more violent. Like pulling catchweed from unspun wool. The demonic taint was scorched away, but it was so integrally woven into and through Dean’s soul that they were almost one. So with every speck of demon that got ripped away, a piece of soul was torn from the whole.

            “Souls are fragile, but powerful. The threads coalesced, like stars forming: the bigger the fragment, the more smaller pieces of debris it draws into it, making it bigger, stronger. But some of the pieces haven’t ... reformed properly. His soul is cracked and severed and more damaged than I thought a soul could be and still endure.”

            Sam wondered idly how he was still sitting there when the world beneath him had vanished. He felt he should be falling.

            “So w-what does that mean?”

            Cas met Sam’s gaze. “I don’t know.”

            “Will he wake up?”

            “It’s ... possible.”

            “Okay, so what do we have to do?”

            Cas raised a hand, halting Sam’s eagerness. “There’s nothing we can do. This, I think, is something only Dean can fix.”

            Sam stared at his friend hopelessly. “So, what, we just leave him half-alive while he, what, tries to glue his soul back together? Is that even possible?”

            “You did it.”

            Sam blinked. Yes, he had pieced himself back together after his soul was saved from the Pit. And it had almost destroyed him.

            He looked down at Dean’s lax yet pained features. He had pieced himself together to get back to Dean. He took back the pain of Lucifer’s tortures to return to his brother. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, which, in his life, was saying something. But he had done it, alone, to get to Dean.

            Sam clenched his jaw and jerked his chin down in a decisive nod. If he could claw his way back through that, then so could Dean. Dean would come back to him. He was sure of it.

            “So can he,” he said down to his brother, his voice sure and strong.

 

            They carried Dean to his bedroom, and, feeling a gut-wrenching sense of dejà vu, Sam laid him gently on the bed. Cas healed his scratched throat while Sam unlaced and removed his boots and pulled a blanket from a closet down the hall and settled it over his brother’s still form.     After that, there was nothing more they could do for him. Unwilling to leave his side, Sam pulled a chair up and sank into it, leaning his elbows on his knees, watching Dean. He might not be able to help his brother piece his soul back together, but that didn’t mean Dean had to be alone in doing it. If the only way Sam could offer any help was to sit by Dean while he fought for his soul, then he wasn’t going anywhere.


	54. Soulsick

            Dean returned to awareness by degrees. First, he noticed the cool, damp something that was pressing against the side of his face. Next, he felt the chill breeze ruffle his hair and snake under his shirt. He shivered.

            It seemed to take him a while to remember how to open his eyes. When he did, moonlit grass grew like a forest before his eyes, the thin blades slanting this way and that, swaying gently as the breeze whispered past. Feeling groggy and light-headed, Dean pushed himself to his feet, pausing as the world spun around him.

            He was standing in a small, nondescript clearing in an unfamiliar forest. The full moon was shrouded by wispy grey clouds, diffusing its light and lending an unearthly appearance to the once bright green foliage and grass.

            Dean looked around, expecting to see the Impala parked somewhere nearby. “Sam?” he called, hearing his voice echo into the trees.

            Nothing.

            _Where the hell was he?_

            Deciding he wasn’t in any immediate danger, he furrowed his brow, trying to remember how he’d got here – wherever ‘here’ was.

            The last thing he could remember was ... Sam’s face. Dean’s eyes flew open as the memory slammed into him. Sam’s face, his lost eyes welling with tears, looking terrified, trying to keep it together, his hands propping him up, clutching him as though afraid he would vanish. Dean concentrated, trying to remember further back, trying to remember what had made his little brother look so heartbroken.

            Memory slammed into being like an avalanche.

            Metatron.

            The First Blade flying into his bloody palm.

            The angelblade sinking hilt-deep into his chest as his breath caught in slow motion. Then the blade was gone, and the world faded and blurred.

            Then Sam was there. Sam, telling him he would be okay, promising to find a spell, pulling him up and dragging him out of the warehouse.

            Dean feeling the coldness turn into something else. Knowing it was coming. Stopping Sam, needing to say it, not wanting the last thing he saw to be some grey corridor.

            _“I’m proud of us.”_

            Sam’s face fading to blackness. A dim sensation of falling.

            Dean looked up to the sky once more. The clouds were thickening, strangling the moon’s light. He breathed in great lungfuls of the cold air, but it did nothing to loosen the constricting weight pressing against his heart.

            _Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry._

            He was dead. He’d left Sam alone.

            No. Sam wasn’t alone. He had Cas, for a few more months at least. And he had Jodie, and Charlie, if she ever came back from Oz. Sam wasn’t alone.

            Dean was.

            _Besides,_ Dean thought, _if I’m still here – wherever the hell this is – then that’s because Sam left me here. So I guess he’s okay with it, then_.

            Dean tried to ignore the fierce twist of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of being stabbed through the heart. He shouldn’t be surprised – Sam had told him he wouldn’t bring him back. And one of them had to stop this never-ending cycle of deals and go live their lives, and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Dean.

            Maybe this time, if he could just stay dead, Sam could have their happily ever after. Find a girl. Have some kids. Get a dog.

            The sudden image of a grey-haired Sam bouncing a grandkid on his knee with some old terrier with a matching grey beard lounging at his feet on a porch made Dean smile.

            Sam had a chance. He could be safe. Metatron would have no reason to hunt him down – Dean had been the problem. Cas’d look out for him. Sam could get a proper job – one that paid and came with free dental. Heaven could fix itself without him.

            Speaking of Heaven. Dean looked around once more, turning slowly on the spot. There was no way he was back behind the Pearly Gates. Even if Cas had tried to pull some strings, Heaven was closed for business. All the dead souls were stuck in the Veil.

            Or in Hell.

            Dean regarded the stoic trees with a new level of suspicion. Hell seemed more fitting for Dean Winchester, but this wasn’t how he’d remembered it. It was too ... non-torture-y.

            He felt a tingle on his arm and brushed it absentmindedly, looking down as his fingers encountered a ridge on his skin.

            The Mark of Cain.

            Dean traced the Mark with his fingers, feeling ever more certain that he was somewhere Downstairs. Though it was difficult to see in the dim light, he could discern another collection of scar tissue surrounding the Mark. Squinting, he ran his thumb over it, trying to figure out what it was.

            It felt like a Devil’s Trap: a five-pointed star enclosed in a circle, this one ringed in flame, like his tattoo. Huh. That was new. Maybe it was to stop him taking over Hell or something? Some kind of death-induced collar for the ancient power?

            Well, that was probably best. To say the Mark was a bad influence was a laughable understatement.

            A rustling in the trees behind Dean had him whirling around, instantly alert, half sinking into a defensive crouch. He squinted through the trees, sure he had seen a figure move between them.

            A few tense moments later, Dean relaxed his posture slightly. Whatever it was, it was gone. Since that hardly meant it wasn’t going to come back, Dean searched the ground for some kind of weapon, but the only thing hiding in the grass was a rock about the side of his thumb.

            Dean frowned at the rock. It was familiar. He tilted it in the dim light, trying to see the faint design that had caught his eye.

            It was a fossil. A tiny, centipede-like skeleton was sketched on the dark blue rock, the tiny ridges casting deep shadows over the lines. Dean blinked. This looked exactly like the fossil he’d found on his first solo hunt.

            Dean looked up and scrutinized the trees more closely.

            “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered softly. It was the same forest that had been the hunting grounds of the lumberjack who’d been crushed under a tree he was felling. Was this a memory? Was the ghost what had shifted in the shadows?

            Dean looked down at himself. He was wearing jeans and a grey shirt he’d bought a few months before he’d died. Dad’s leather jacket was nowhere in sight. The amulet Sam had given him wasn’t there either.

            So ... not a memory.

            What the hell was going on?

            Twigs snapped like firecrackers behind him and he spun round again, clenching his fist around the fossil.

            Nothing.

            If this was Hell, then this was a weird-ass torture.

            A low, familiar chuckle echoed from beyond the tree line.

            Dean gulped.

            “Who’s there?” he called back, his voice low and steady.

            The rustling stopped, but there was no reply.

            Feeling acutely uneasy and wanting to be out of the exposed clearing, Dean turned around.

            And felt his heart stop.

            “B-Bobby?” he breathed, afraid to believe his eyes.

            “Hey, Dean.”

            A wide and sincere smile spread across his lips. His memory had not done justice to the old hunter’s voice. It was deeper and richer than he’d remembered. Dean had forgotten exactly how Bobby had said his name. He felt his leaden heart lift.

            Bobby looked just as he always had. A plaid shirt, forest green jacket, age-torn jeans and a green baseball cap with three tiny scrapes along the visor. His unkempt beard was as scraggly as always, and his twinkling eyes were –

            Wrong.

            Dean’s smile faltered as he finally registered Bobby’s expression. He looked ... scared.

            “Bobby? What is it?”

            “It’s not safe here.”

            Dean looked over his shoulder, half-expecting the Rustler to be lurking in the shadows behind him. “I know. Do you know what it is? Or where we are, for that matter?”

            “It’s not safe here,” Bobby repeated, his voice even, almost disinterested.

            Dean returned his gaze to his old mentor, frowning. “Bobby? What’s wrong?”

            Sorrow broke through the fear in Bobby’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

            “For what?”

            “I should have killed you when I had the chance. I didn’t know, I didn’t think –”

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean held up his hands, forcing Bobby to shush. “Killed me? Bobby, what are you talking about?”

            Bobby took a shuddering breath and produced a long, curved silver sword that glinted in the feeble light. Dean stared at the weapon, confusion and caution making him take a small step back. “Bobby, what’re you doing?”

            “How could you do it, boy?” Bobby accused, taking a deliberate step towards Dean, the wicked weapon still clenched by his side.

            Dean’s mind was racing. Bobby was in Heaven, Sam had made sure of that. So either this wasn’t Hell after all, or it was and this was his torture. He glanced at the grassy ground again, looking for something to defend himself with, but there was nothing. “Bobby, you don’t have to do this.”

            “How could you do that to Sam?” Bobby’s voice was quavering with sorrow and, Dean was alarmed to recognise, anger. “How could you betray him? Betray all of us!”

            Dean’s eyes widened in shocked hurt. “I had to, man! He was dying! I couldn’t just let him – let him fade away! I trusted the wrong angel, okay? I thought Gadreel was good, I never meant for it to –”

            “I don’t care about the angel, boy!” Bobby boomed, taking another, longer step towards Dean, who skipped back to stay beyond the reach of the gleaming blade.

            “Well, then – what?” Dean searched Bobby’s face for some explanation, utterly confused. “What, are you mad at me for dying? It’s not like I had a choice, Bobby! Sam’s the one who’s left me here!”

            Bobby’s expression darkened as fury won out. He strode forward, gripping the hilt of the short sword tightly. “After everything we’ve done, after everything John taught you – everything _I_ taught you – how could you let yourself become one of them!”

            Dean was half-running backwards, tripping over an unseen mound of grass and fell hard on his back as Bobby stalked closer. His breathing quickened. An image flashed in his mind, too quickly for him to understand. A flash of red, the echo of high-pitched screams, the shadow of satisfaction.

            He shook his head hard, banishing the image. Bobby was almost upon him, raising the sword high over his head, readying to strike down into Dean’s heart. Dean’s eyes widened in horror. He raised a hand in a futile attempt to protect himself and cried out, pleading with the man who had been as good as a father to him to please, _please_ , stop.

            As Bobby closed the last few feet, Dean’s courage broke. He lashed out with his boot, kicking Bobby’s shin out from under him, and rolled to the side as the old hunter came crashing down. He fumbled in the long grass and wrenched the sword from Bobby’s grasp, holding it out over his mentor in warning.

            “What the hell are you doing, Bobby!” he shouted as Bobby rolled onto his back, panting.

            “He’s doing what I should have done ten years ago,” came a deep, half-forgotten voice from behind Dean.

            Feeling shock plunge into his stomach like a frigid bomb, he turned around.

            John Winchester was standing near the edge of the small clearing, a sawn-off shotgun held casually against his shoulder. Dean’s eyes widened.

            “Dad?” he breathed, straightening up and staring at his father, unable to believe his eyes.

            “It’s me, son.”

            Hearing Bobby move to get up behind him, Dean whirled around, bringing the sword up warningly.

            “Easy there, Dean,” his father called. “You wouldn’t want to spill any more blood, now would you?”

            Dean’s sense of caution flared as he glanced back to his advancing father.

            “Blood, huh? You reckon he’s got any? Do any of us? Where the hell are we!”

            John’s eyebrows rose. “Look who’s all grown up and demanding. It’s a pity, Dean. You were such a good soldier. Though never meant, I think, to be a general.”

            Hurt flickered in Dean’s chest, but he reigned it in, drawing his frayed emotions behind a wall of scowls. “Where the hell am I?” he said again, his voice as low and dangerous as it had ever been.

            John smiled and glanced around the clearing before returning his dark gaze to Dean’s. “C’mon, Dean, I taught you better than that. Where do you think we are?”

            Dean’s eyes flickered from tree line to tree line. “It’s not Heaven.”

            “That’s for sure,” John laughed.

            “Hell?”

            John squinted, shaking his head. “Not technically.”

            “What the hell does that mean?”

            “It means we’re not in Hell. But, between you and me, there’s not much difference.”

            “Then where!” Dean barked, his patience evapourating.

            John grinned at him. For some reason, it made Dean’s skin crawl. This wasn’t his father, he was sure of that. Just as the thing getting to its feet beside him wasn’t Bobby, this wasn’t his father. Just some ghost or shifter or ... something.

            “We’re in your head, Dean.”

            Dean blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “My head?”

            “Yep,” the not-Bobby said simply.

            Dean looked between them. Slowly, cautiously, he lowered the sword. “Why are you in my head?”

            John and Bobby exchanged a long glance.

            “We’re here to do what you should have done a year ago.”

            Dean felt his last speck of patience wink out of existence. “You better start giving me some straight answers or I swear to God I’ll –”

            “What? What are you and ‘God’ gonna do?” John sneered. “He doesn’t give a shit about you, Dean. Why would he? You’re gonna threaten us with – with what? You’re powerless here, kid. Helpless. And you’re not gonna wake up.”

            “Yeah?” Dean challenged, his mind reeling. “And why’s that?”

            “We’re not gonna let you, son,” Bobby answered gently.


	55. How to Break Dean Winchester

            “You’re not gonna _let_ me wake up?” Dean clarified, masking his unease with a raised eyebrow.

            Bobby shook his head, his eyes brimming with sorrowful compassion. “I’m sorry, son, but it’s for your own good.”

            “You couldn’t handle it if you woke up,” John added, his voice oddly gentle.

            Dean looked from one father figure to the other, trying to understand, trying to quell his rising apprehension. “You’re saying I’m, what, in a coma?”

            They nodded.

            “And if I wake up I’ll go crazy or something?”

            “Or something,” John agreed.

            The hilt of the short sword was smooth and warm in his sweating palm. He gripped it more tightly, using it as an excuse to break eye contact with the mind-ghosts or whatever the hell they were and watch as the razor-sharp tip of the weapon gleamed subtly in the darkness.

            “If we’re in my head, you two are me, right?” he asked, watching the point of the sword swirl in a lazy figure eight, sending eddies of the cool air rippling through the navy-green grass. He heard Bobby affirm his suspicion somewhere to his right.

            Dean smiled humourlessly at the gently waving grass. “If you’re me then you know there’s no way I’m leaving my brother alone out there.”

            “Even when you know that’s what I want?”

            Dean looked up. “Oh, _come_ on!” he groaned. “What is this, some kind of family reunion?”

            Sam had joined the small circle, standing opposite Dean between John and Bobby. He was far younger than the last time Dean had seen him. His hair hugged his head, hanging low over his eyes, and his cheeks were slightly rounded with a layer of baby fat. It took Dean another long moment to recognise the beige jacket Sam wore. It was the same outfit he had worn the day he’d been stabbed ten feet in front of Dean.

            “Cold Oak?” he asked guardedly.

            Sam nodded. Dean noticed that he, too, was armed. This time with Ruby’s Kurd knife. Dean gestured to it.

            “Then you shouldn’t have that thing for another few years, don’tcha think? Continuity, man.”

            “Dean.” Sam fixed him with eyes that looked uncomfortably similar to a begging puppy. “You gotta listen, buddy.”

            “We’re here to help you.”

            Dean’s jaw dropped as Ellen Harvelle stepped out of the shadows to stand by John, gripping a handgun in her right hand.

            “You trusted us once.” Jo took her place between Bobby and Sam, one thumb tucked into her jeans pocket, a rifle slung with a thick leather strap around her torso, and her father’s knife held delicately in her palm. “Trust us now.”

            Dean took a step back, his eyes flicking madly from face to beloved face. He didn’t understand what was happening here, but he could feel his walls crumbling into dust. These faces, these voices should be locked away deep inside him, not standing here looking as vivid and real and alive as they had in life.

            “You need to come with us, Dean,” added a new voice that sent an ache through Dean’s heart. He turned around, hating how desperately he wanted to see her face standing behind him. She stood with black hair falling in soft curls over her shoulders, a baseball bat held casually in her hand.

            Lisa Braeden looked every bit as beautiful as the day Dean had first seen her. Her dark eyes were watching him with that unbelievable look of love that had sustained him through one of his worst years.

            “We’ll take you some place safe.”

            Ben came to a halt beside his mother, holding a sawn-off Dean recognised as his own. He hadn’t aged a day and his eyes shone with the admiration Dean always felt was undeserved when directed at him.

            Dean couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. He turned on the spot, dropping Bobby’s sword as he drank in all the faces he had lived for, all watching him with such tender, sorrowful expressions. All his loves.

            Well, nearly all.

            Dean turned to his father. “Mom?” he mouthed, unable to catch enough air to form the words.

            John shook his head sadly. “She wanted to be here, Dean. She did. But she couldn’t bear it.”

            Dean turned to Sam. “Cas? Charlie?”

            Sam’s eyes were wet with tears. “They tried. Kevin too.”

            Dean felt a tear escape and run down his cheek as though wanting to reunite with his lost loves. He understood what his father had meant now. He had no defense against this. He was helpless before these people he had loved and failed and lost.

            “What,” he whispered, “what do you want me to do?”

            Sam stepped forward. “We need you to die, Dean. We need you to give in.”

            “Give in,” he breathed. “To what?”

            “To that darkness that’s always been inside you, kiddo,” John answered, stepping closer and clapping a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “That power that you’ve always been so afraid of.”

            “It’ll be so much easier,” Ben added, “to just let go and embrace it.”

            “You’ll be at peace, Dean,” Ellen said, the smile Dean had almost forgotten brightening her beautiful face.

            “No more fear.” Bobby’s beard twitched into a small smile.

            “No more seeing your friends die,” Jo continued, her eyes twinkling above the big front teeth that were prominent in her grin.

            “You’ll finally be safe,” Lisa promised, beaming at him with wet eyes.

            The words fell like sweet-smelling petals on Dean’s ears, the voices that carried them making them almost irresistible. Dean glanced from weapon to weapon. It could be so quick. One buck shot to the head and it would be over. He could finally rest.

            He felt unease squirm inside him as tears skipped and fell from his eyes. These people, his family, had never before asked such a thing of him. Sam and Bobby had begged him to continue; John had sold his soul so that Dean might live; Ellen and Jo had given their lives so he and Sam might fight on.

            Sam.

            His brother’s tearful face flashed across his eyes like lightning. His hand had held the trembling cheek. He had seen the terror in the familiar hazel eyes. He had felt the hands he had always relied on holding him up as his strength failed.

            How could he leave him?

            But then, Sam could have a life if he were gone, a proper, rich, happy life. He could be safe, raise a family. Who was he to deny his brother their greatest wish? Maybe Sam was right. Maybe it was better one of them broke the cycle of sacrifice. Or maybe one of them should end it with one last surrender.

            Dean looked up to his little brother’s tear-stained face, afraid to say yes, scared to say no.

            “It’s okay, Dean,” Sam reassured him. “Just give in to it. You’ll be happy. You’ll be invincible. I promise.”

            Invincible? Dean’s brows pulled together a twitch. Give in to it? Was that right? Did you really give in to death? And how would death make him invincible? Souls could still be destroyed; he’d seen it happen. They could be used and burned and tortured beyond recognition. Death himself had said that souls were vulnerable, impermanent.

            Dean looked more closely into his brother’s eyes. Sam would never ask him to die. He may allow it to happen, but he’d never beg Dean to ‘let go’. And he had never, in all their years, told him to ‘give in’. He had been Dean’s rock, the one person for whom he would keep going, the one reason he would _never_ give up.

            Sam would never ask this of him.

            “Who are you?” Dean asked, his voice low and resigned. “And don’t tell me you’re meant to be Sammy.”

            Sam’s lips curled into a smile that would halt most men in their tracks.

            “I’m you, Dean,” he said confidently as his eyes blinked to black.


	56. Helpless

            Sam’s breath whistled gently through his interlocked fingers, tickling the fine hairs as it wove its way through them like a miniature gale through mountain valleys. His eyes were caught in a stare as he gazed at his brother’s pinched features. It had been almost two days, and Dean still hadn’t so much as twitched.

            Sam didn’t know exactly how long he had spent in a coma after the Trials, but he was beginning to understand his brother’s desperation. If it would help, Sam didn’t think he’d need as much convincing as he should to help trick Dean into letting Cas possess him.

            But that wouldn’t help. Nothing would. Sam was helpless, useless, spending hour after hour losing a staring contest with a brother whose eyes he legitimately might never see again.

            He heard the door open behind him, but the sudden cacophony of old hinges and squeaking boots didn’t so much as make him blink.

            “Hey Cas,” he said, his voice sounding as dead as Dean looked.

            “Anything?”

            “No change.”

            He felt Cas take the seat beside him, scooting it closer as he resumed his vigil.

            “Anything on angel radio?” Sam asked, not really caring about the answer. It was a mess out there and he had to find a way to clean it up, and right now, he’d really rather just count dust motes.

            “Nothing. If any angels on Earth survived the slaughter, they’re wisely staying quiet. As for those who chose to follow Metatron – X, they’re either dead or have nothing to say.”

            “Least Metatron’s not hunting you.”

            “Yes. At least there’s that.”

            “Could he find the Bunker?”

            “Not unless someone showed him to the door. It’s impeccably warded.”

            “Then how did Cain find it?” Sam asked. The question had been gnawing at him since he’d slowed down enough to think of the recent events. “For that matter, why did he even show up with Dean like that?”

            “What do you mean?”

            Sam tore his eyes from Dean’s pale features and turned to Cas. “Dean told me part of the deal with him getting the Mark in the first place was that some day Cain would show up and ask Dean to kill him. Judging by what we know of Cain, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d throw that away. Dean was his only chance at death. Or whatever happens to demons when they die.”

            “Perhaps he realised Dean had to be stopped.”

            “Why, though? Cain lived with the Mark for centuries. If he could do it, so could Dean. Why would he hand over his one chance at peace?”

            Cas raised his eyebrows thoughtfully as he picked at a loose thread on the blanket covering Dean. “That’s a good question. If we ever see him again we should ask.”

            “That’s another thing that worries me. What if we do see him again?”

            Cas nodded, his eyes turning to Dean’s face. “It’s been almost two days.”

            “Yeah.” As if Sam wasn’t counting the hours.

            “You mentioned the Bunker had a hospital section?”

            “We’re not moving him. He loves his room.”

            “No, of course not. But he is weakening. We should probably see if there are any IV’s or ... something.”

            “Why can’t you just heal him?”

            A pause.

            “Because there’s nothing to heal.”

            Sam gave the angel a look. “What?” he asked flatly.

            “When I heal a human,” Cas explained patiently, “I simply magnify their innate healing abilities. I add to what’s already there, waiting. Speed things up. As long as their soul has the energy for it, I can heal almost any usual ailment with just a touch.” Cas raised two fingers in the air, pressing them to an imaginary forehead. “With Dean, his soul is too weak to sustain such an intrusion. Healing the contusions on his neck took the last of his strength.”

            “What about your Grace? Can’t you just use that energy?”

            “Not for a wound like this. Only souls can heals souls, and I don’t have one.”

            “I can’t take this, Cas,” Sam confessed softly after a long pause.

            “I know,” he answered quietly.

            “What if he –” Sam couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

            “I know.”

            “How do we even know the Mark is contained right?” he exclaimed, exasperation and worry colouring his tone.

            Cas thought a moment before answering. “I suppose we don’t. We only have Death’s word. We’ll just have to trust in it.”

            Sam huffed. Trusting in the Grim Reaper’s promise. God, his life was _weird_.

            “What if –” Sam’s voice caught and he started again, blinking back the unwanted moisture in his eyes. “What if I did it wrong? What if I messed up? The lines, they had to be so precise,” he said, gesturing to the two brands on Dean’s arm. “What if –”

            “Sam,” Cas interjected firmly. He waited for Sam to meet his gaze before continuing. “You’ve done everything you could, as well as humanly possible. And that means something, coming from an angel. You need to just ... be patient. Try to keep calm. Worrying isn’t going to help anyone.”

            Sam nodded. “I know. I know.”

            He hung his head against the weight of it all. He felt Cas’s hand grip his shoulder in solidarity. At least he didn’t have to bear this burden alone.

            “I’m glad you’re here, Cas.”

            Sam didn’t see the angel’s small, touched smile lift his features. And neither noticed as the single tear escape Dean’s left eye and trickle slowly down to disappear into his hairline.


	57. No Defense

            Dean recoiled back from Sam, feeling John’s hand on his shoulder tighten. He looked to his father, horrified, and saw his eyes were as inky black as Sam’s. He jerked back, his breath catching. The circle of old friends and family was closing in around him, hands gripping weapons readily, mouths twisted into vicious, satisfied grins, and every pair of eyes were identical voids of fathomless darkness.

            Before Dean could lean down to find the sword, he felt something hard whack into the back of his head, dazzling him. Another half-familiar image flashed behind his eyes, one of blood and screaming and a laugh that made his skin crawl. He pitched forward and was knocked to the side by the butt of a shotgun to his jaw. Fire and lightning danced behind his eyes as long dagger-like teeth bared in a fearsome growl. A knee to his abdomen sent him thudding into the sweet-smelling grass.

            His fingers found something hard and he brought the sword up in a wide arc, trying to buy himself some time, but the clang of steel on steel cut through the night and the weapon was wrenched out of his grasp before the sound had faded from his ears.

            Boots and fists and biting weapons rained down on him, pummeling his unprotected back as he curled in on himself, covering his head with his arms in a vain attempt to protect it. Knives cut his shirt open, and then his skin as the air was knocked out of him again and again. Every blow seemed to carry another burning, terrifying image with it, as though they were beating a nightmare into his very flesh. Above him, he heard laughter.

            _He saw a thin man with pallid features look up at him in wide-eyed shock as a red stain drenched his dirty shirt._ Dean tasted blood. He cried out, and the laughter increased.

            _A child, no more than four, trembled before him, his thin arm held protectively over a baby to his side. Dean felt the weapon shudder through the kid’s terrified expression_. Dean retched, blood spilling onto the grass, glistening wetly in the wan light. He tightened his hold on his head, trying to keep the images from tearing it apart. Strong hands reached down and pulled him onto his back, pinning his arms above his head, exposing his torso. Steel bit into his abdomen. Blood ran in dancing rivulets down his chest.

            _He saw Sam’s startled expression as Dean’s hand clenched around his throat, throwing him bodily across a dank room, sending him crashing into a heap amid splintered wood. He felt his knuckles crash into his brother’s face, his gut, his chest, over and over. He saw blood erupt from his lips and forehead as his eyes glazed over. He heard his choked pleas, begging him to stop, and again, he heard the unearthly, inhuman laughter, could feel it bubbling up from inside him_. Dean’s eyes were open, but all he could see was blackness. The silhouettes of the silent trees, the impenetrable, unending night, and the uncaring voids of the eyes leering down at him from faces he loved so deeply.

            The pain of ripping flesh and breaking bones was too faint to distract him from the agony in his heart. Each flash of what he knew was memory intensified the burn and he wished more than anything in his life that Bobby or Sam or Ellen or anyone would just cut it out of him. He couldn’t bear it. It was too much.

            As he looked from face to face, begging them with his eyes to simply end it, Dean caught a glimpse of a small figure backing into the trees. It turned and ran into the darkness. Dean tried to call out to it, to beg it to take him with it, to tell the others to kill him, but his voice was lost to the ceaseless blows that ruptured his living corpse. Dean saw another figure follow the first, this one larger, stronger, crouched low as it stalked its smaller prey. Something in Dean, something miraculously untouched by the suffocating agony that was consuming him, stirred as he watched the figures vanish into shadow. He tried once again to call out, but only thick blood left his lips.

            It was hopeless. He was helpless. He was going to die.

            He turned his face back towards the starless sky obscured by black-eyed faces and waited for the final blow that would shut out the paltry light of the smoke-veiled moon.


	58. Breaking Point

            Cas wandered slowly through the Bunker’s halls, feeling an invisible weight hunch his shoulders. The lights flickered into life as he rounded each corner, illuminating the next stretch of identical hallway. His shoes squeaked on every other step, the regular creak echoing pleasantly down the bare corridors.

            It was the fourth day since the Cure. Dean was paler, thinner, but every bit as unconscious as he had been on day one. Cas was fast losing hope.

            Sam’s resolve was as unshakable as ever, but Cas could see the strain was beginning to take its toll. The younger Winchester looked almost as haggard as his brother, and the dark circles under his exhausted eyes aged him drastically. Despite Cas’s ever-improving skill at sandwich-making, Sam still wasn’t eating as frequently as Cas thought was healthy. Ignoring each untouched plate, Cas kept up a steady stream of BLTs and grilled cheese masterpieces.

            As much as he wanted to glue himself to Dean’s bedside, Cas couldn’t help but feel he was intruding on the brothers’ grief. Or perhaps he was just nervous that Sam’s hyperawareness would redirect itself onto him. He wasn’t yet ready for his secret to be known. They had enough to be worrying about without adding to the pile.

            Not paying any attention to where his feet were carrying him, Cas was surprised to open one of the heavy doors and find himself staring at the stairs leading to the garage. Needing no encouragement from him, his feet stepped up into the cavernous room.

            Cas’s eyes flicked over the classic cars before his gaze was riveted by the crumpled wreck of what took him a moment to recognise as Dean’s old Impala. He came to a halt before the ruined car, his jaw dropping as he saw firsthand the destruction that had crushed the old Chevy almost beyond recognition.

            The frame was jagged and bent, looking like a massive piece of black paper that had been crumpled by a giant’s hands. Both windshields bore a spiderweb of white scars, and the only glass left in the door windows were jagged teeth bared against the shadowy maw of the interior like a wounded animal’s, boldly warning an intruder not to approach. Only one tire remained unburst and even it was woefully flat, and every rim was bent. One of the windscreen wipers stood perpendicular from the wreck, looking to Cas like a hand outstretched, beseeching help.

            Dean had done this.

            The two concepts didn’t make sense to Castiel. He knew Dean had caused severe damage over the last year, but he simply couldn’t reconcile the idea of Dean Winchester willingly doing this to his beloved Baby.

            No. The demon had done this. And Dean would undo it.

            Cas raised his fist, gently lifting the old car a foot into the air. Concentrating on the different flavours of metals and plastics, he slowly unclenched his hand. As his fingers straightened, so did the metal frame. Metal popped and squealed as dislodged fragments of glass tinkled like chimes to the floor. The rear windscreen trembled and shattered as the chassis jerked under Castiel’s ministrations, sending the opaque glass skittering over the inky black hood and raining down like sculpted ice to bounce and twirl against the muted grey dance floor.

            When the frame had been restored to something reminiscent of the ’67 Impala design, Cas set the car gently down on its ruined tires. It was severely dented and the formally jet black paint was scarred with rough greyish breaks where the metal had snapped, as though some great clawed beast had ravaged it. It still looked broken and sad, but Cas knew Dean would be able to fix it. He had done it before; this time would be no different.

            Provided he woke up, of course.

            Cas’s brief smile faded like cloud-veiled sun. Four days, and he hadn’t so much as stirred. The IV Sam had persuaded into the crook of his unbranded arm offered what meager sustenance it could, but whether or not Sam could – or chose to – see it, Dean was wasting away. Shadows swallowed his cheeks. Caves consumed his arms where his shirtsleeves ended. His whispering breaths were not enough to smooth the creases where the blanket lay over his hollowed stomach. Sam had spent hours trying to coax a warm broth through Dean’s lips, but the older Winchester had been unable to swallow the nourishment.

            Dean was dying, and thanks to Castiel’s newly reinstated angelic abilities, he was watching it happen in unbelievably high definition. He was grateful for Sam’s relative blindness – the hunter couldn’t see that each breath was minutely shallower than the last, or the colour seep inexorably from the haggard face.

            And there was nothing Cas could do to stop it.

            A brand new, untested, unique Grace and the best he could do to help his friend was untwist his old home into a more noticeably car-shaped shell. It was pathetic.

            Cas pressed a hand over his eyes, suddenly feeling very old indeed. It was strange, how he had lived for so many millennia without ever truly understanding the cruel gift of love and in these last few years becoming an expert in heartache. He wasn’t altogether sure he didn’t prefer numb ignorance.

            As if on cue, Metatron’s voice resounded through his mind, the memory a thin echo of the booming intrusion of the previous week.

            “ _Oh Castiel? I know you can hear me – you’re the only one left who can. You can’t ignore me. I know you’re still out there and I swear I will harness the unparalleled might of my shiny new angelic army to blast apart every stone until we find the one you’re trembling under. And Cas? I won’t be quick. I’ll take my time with you. And the first punch? Oh, that’ll be the sweetest. You see, I’ll find your precious Winchesters and I’ll peel their skin off while you watch – helpless – as they scream their lives away._

_“But that’s only the start of the fun – that’s when I’ll start tearing apart their_ souls _. And you’ve heard a soul’s scream, Castiel. You know how it rips apart something deep inside you. Can you imagine how it’ll sear into heart when the souls that’re screaming belong to your darling pets? And when they’re gone and their screeches have faded into silence, I’ll leave you, all alone, in my very cell for, oh, say six millennia, with nothing but the memories of those screams for company, and then, when I’ve had my fun with you, that’s when we’ll get started on you. That’s when I’ll start pulling out every feather, one by one. That’s when I’ll make you_ beg _me for forgiveness,_ beg _me for death!_

_“And when at last I’m bored of the noises you make, then I’ll grant your wish.”_

            Cas couldn’t suppress a shiver as the snarling whisper faded in his mind. Knowing the Bunker was the safest place for him and the Winchesters to be didn’t offer Cas much comfort. What it really meant was that if Metatron ever did find the hunters’ haven, there would be nowhere for the Winchesters to run or hide.

            Cas had already double-checked and refreshed the Enochian spells carved into their ribcages in an effort to keep them better hidden (which had not been easy to explain to Sam), but that didn’t mean they were unfindable. The angels Metatron was supposedly creating might have entirely new talents – there was no way of knowing. The only life form ever to be created by an angel was a Nephilim, and they were notorious for being unpredictable. Cas wasn’t entirely convinced that Metatron was even capable of creating a new host of angelic warriors, but on the off chance he was, he and the Winchesters were woefully unprepared for an attack. One angel could not fight off an army of Heavenly soldiers.

            Metatron’s words twisted around and around in Cas’s mind like swirling pipe smoke. He had boasted of killing every disloyal angel – but did he mean every order of angel? Was Cas truly to believe that the cherubim were all dead? Killing the cupids was unthinkable. It would be like killing love itself. Surely Metatron could never be so callous.

            Or could he?

            Cas turned his ears to angel radio once more, and again he heard nothing but a silence so deep it deafened him. There was only one other time in his long millennia when the angels had seemed so silent: when Cas was human. Could it be that his new human-made Grace didn’t allow him to tune into that frequency? No. Not tuning in was different to tuning in to the nothingness.

            Cas put a hand to his forehead, leaning gently against the Impala’s dented hood. These questions were pointless, answerless. There was no use torturing himself with ifs and buts. He knew his best option was, for now, to stay put in the Bunker and help his friends in any way he could. Then, once he knew either way what would become of Dean, he and Sam could turn their attention to –

            “CAS!”

            The shout in Cas’s mind was echoed by the voice reverberating through the halls, so loud it made Cas jump. Feeling his heart leap up to his throat as though wanting a better view, he turned and flew through the corridors, coat whipping about his heels.

            He reached Dean’s room in moments and landed hard, not bothering to fold his wings as he took stock of the situation.

            Sam was leaning over the bed, his hands pressed hard against Dean’s chest, desperately trying to keep him lying still. Dean’s eyes were half-open and sightless, blood flowing from his nose, mouth and ears as he bucked and jerked wildly on the bed as though he were being electrocuted.

            “CAS!” Sam called again, unaware of the angel’s arrival. “CAS!”

            “I’m here.” Cas stepped forward and raised his hand, gently but firmly pinning Dean’s spasming body to the bed. Sam looked around confusedly for a moment before tentatively relinquishing his grip.

            “What happened?” Cas asked. He could feel Dean’s muscles straining against his invisible bonds, fighting with a strength Cas had been sure had drained out of him.

            “I don’t know,” Sam said breathlessly. “One second he was still, completely comatose. Then his eyes opened a bit – I thought he was waking up. But then I noticed his nose was bleeding and a second later he went full Exorcist.”

            Dean’s green eyes were glassy and vacant as they stared at the painted ceiling. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t make a sound. His shallow breaths were heavier and more ragged than before, but there was no scream to accompany the relentless twitching that was all Sam could see of the man’s increasingly desperate struggle.

            “Cas, what is happening to him?” Sam’s eyes were beseeching Cas, searching faithfully for some answer, any answer. Cas could only hazard a guess.

            “He must be facing some challenge in his mind. Something strong enough to reconnect him to his body.”

            “What, so he’s awake?”

            “No. Whatever he’s experiencing is simply powerful enough to reengage his muscles.”

            Sam’s expression and shoulders fell. “You mean like electricity through a dead frog? It doesn’t mean he’s getting better?”

            Cas waged a brief war between kindness and honesty. Honesty won. “Actually, Sam, it ... it probably means he’s getting worse.”

            Sam fell back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his weary eyes. “I can’t take this, Cas,” he said without looking up.

            “I know.”

            “No.” The hunter’s voice was suddenly stronger, more certain as he looked up at the angel. “I mean I _can’t_ take this, Cas.”

            Having the distinct impression he was missing something, Cas leant forward. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean there’s gotta be something I can do! When I was in a coma, Gadreel brought Dean in to show him how bad it was – he saw me. He could, I dunno, talk to me, couldn’t he? He was there!”

            Seeing where he was going with this, Cas held out a hand. “Sam, it’s just too dange –”

            “DON’T TELL ME IT’S DANGEROUS!” Sam roared, bounding to his feet.

            Cas stared. Sam looked to the ground, ashamed but still breathing heavily. Dean’s struggling began to weaken against Cas’s invisible restraints.

            “Don’t tell me it’s too dangerous,” he repeated, his tone lower and calmer now. “I don’t care. I’ve got to help him. I can’t just leave him alone to face this.”

            “Sam, I can’t bring you inside Dean’s head. I can’t even take a peek myself.”

            “Why not?” Sam growled, and Cas could hear how valiantly he tried to keep his voice level and civil.

            “Because it means bringing one or two more multi-dimensional balls of blistering energy into a vessel – a person,” Cas corrected himself, “that is already deeply damaged. If I tried to bring you to him, it could disrupt whatever balance he has left inside him.”

            Sam was shaking his head, his face set in a look Cas associated with apocalypse-averting stubbornness. “Not if I use this.” He pulled a small jar of beige-brown roots from a bag under the desk and held it out to Cas. “African Dream Root. It’ll work. And it’s safe – and I’ll have powers if I take it. I’ll be able to help.”

            “Sam,” Cas said warningly, eying the root with deep distrust. “I don’t think –”

            “I’m doing it, Cas. I’m sorry, but I can’t just sit here and watch my brother die. I can’t. You can either help me, or stay out of my way.”

            Cas held the Winchester’s gaze for a long moment as he felt Dean’s twitching abruptly cease. He turned and looked at the man he had pulled from Hell’s racks as his eyes slid slowly shut. He was dying. What had they to lose? Another few hours of agony, watching him waste away?

            Cas looked back to Sam. Lowering his hand and releasing Dean, he nodded.

            “I’ll help.”


	59. Beyond Repair

            Sam gasped wildly for air as his eyes flew open. His heart was pounding like a galloping horse and he stared in confusion at the overcast sky above him, ringed with the dark, spiked silhouettes of trees. It was night. There was no moon and no stars. How could he see anything?

            He sat up. He was in the middle of a small clearing in a forest. There was no sign of Dean. Or anything, for that matter, except the long grass and silent trees.

            “Right,” Sam muttered to himself as he got to his feet. “So far, so good.”

            Sam looked around the clearing, trying to spy a path or trail he was meant to follow. He shivered; Dean’s mind was cold. He didn’t remember Bobby’s mind being cold. He tried to ignore the obvious red flag.

            The sound of twigs snapping and pine needles brushing against each other made Sam turn. His gaze zeroed in on the swaying branches to his left. Taking a deep breath, he followed whatever had moved them.

            It was even darker under the canopy. The trees were wide and close and Sam walked with hunched shoulders, trying not to disturb the great monarchs. The night was so still, so quiet that every tentative step seemed as loud as gunfire.

            Every now and then Sam caught a glimpse of a small figure ahead of him, staying out of sight but close enough to guide his way with its barely audible footfalls. Whatever it was, it was tiny – barely as tall as Sam’s hip.

            He wished he had a weapon. While knowing he had the Dream Root’s added mojo, a handgun or machete would feel very reassuring on this long walk through the dark forest.

            After what must have been over an hour, the trees began to thin. Sam’s mysterious guide abruptly vanished. Sam paused, listening for the whisper-soft footsteps, but they were gone. Swallowing hard, he pressed on through the steadily thinning trees in as straight a line as he could trace without a path.

            As he stepped out from under the last pine’s boughs, Sam’s mouth fell open.

            The clearing was unremarkable, the pathetic ruin of a building sinister only in its dilapidation. What halted Sam was the murky shadows of a familiar junkyard curving behind what he then recognised to be a house.

            Bobby’s house.

            Sam stepped forward, his guard up, his hands fisted against any surprise attack. The memories the old ruin engendered were less easy to fend off. The book-cluttered rooms and smell of stale beer and incense were gone. One corner of his old safehouse remained standing, the ragged brickwork silhouetted against the inky, starless sky. The roof had caved in, debris littering the area that had once been a porch and garden.

            Sam compared the image before him with the memory of the last time he had seen Bobby’s place. Weeds had been reclaiming the land after a Leviathan had burnt the former haven into a smoldering crater.

            Impossibly, this looked worse.

            Maybe it was the rawness of the ruin before him, the lack of any new growth to soften the carnage that made it so hard to behold. Or maybe it was because this must be how Dean remembered the old place, instead of as the haven – the home – it had been for so many years.

            Sam shook himself. If he was going to help Dean out of this mess, he had to be strong. He couldn’t let himself be caught up in nostalgia or grief or anything that wasn’t constructive to helping Dean. Reminiscing about the house that once was didn’t help anything.

            Sam turned his hunter’s eye on the ruin, thinking. Whoever his little guide was, they had wanted him to come here. Assuming the guide was friendly, that could mean Dean was inside.

            Except that there was no inside anymore. There was rubble and there was under rubble, but nothing that could be called ‘inside’.

            Sam walked around the perimeter a ways before he saw something that made him smile. One of the door posts to the basement had survived whatever catastrophe had leveled most of the two storey house. His smile widened. Of course.

            The panic room.

            Carefully maneuvering his way down through the dusty bricks and squeaking stairs, Sam descended into the basement. Whatever mysterious luminescence lit the world outside kept working in here, for which Sam was grateful. He didn’t like the idea of starting a fire in Dean’s mind.

            The iron door to the panic room was closed. Sam laid his hand against it a moment, feeling the rough, salted surface under his palm. He pushed.

            The door creaked open.

            Dean was inside.

            If the apparition of the ruined house had shocked Sam, it was nothing compared to the sight of his ruined brother.

            Dean was hunched over himself against the wall, his normally big frame seeming smaller. His head was buried in his hands and Sam could see blood on his knuckles. It wasn’t the only stain. Blood and bruises covered his exposed back. Whatever light illuminated him cast the spaces between his ribs and shoulder blades into achingly sharp relief. He was emaciated.

            Thick chains as black as demon eyes crisscrossed over Dean’s shaking frame, wearing deep welts into his battered skin, winding around his torn jeans. They didn’t seem tied to him, but their sheer weight kept them – and Dean – in place. Dean was pressing himself hard into the wall of the panic room as though desperate to melt into it.

            Sam, realising that Dean had not yet noticed his presence, took a moment to compose himself. He could feel this later: now Dean needed him to be strong. He swallowed his tears and took a quiet step forward.

            “Dean?” he whispered, not wanting to frighten his brother.

            Dean flinched and pressed himself yet harder into the wall, his head swaying from side to side as soft moans escaped him.

            So much for that.

            “Dean?” he tried again, taking another step closer. “Dean, it’s Sam. It’s Sammy.”

            When he reached the quivering form of his brother, Sam sank down to his level. This close to him, the sight became harder to bear. Ignoring it, Sam focused on the tiny sounds his brother was making, listening until they became words.

            “No, no, no, no, please, no, no, please –”

            “Dean?” he tried again.

            “No! No! Please, no!”

            “Dean, it’s Sam. Sammy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

            Despite Sam’s gentlest tone, Dean flinched as though the words had cut him.

            “No, Sammy, please, I’m so sorry, no, please Sammy, pleeease –”

            “I’m here, Dean. It’s okay.” Sam swallowed. This was a million miles from ‘okay’.

            “Sammy, please, so sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry, please, Sammy, no more –”

            Unwanted tears filled Sam’s eyes. He was afraid to touch his brother’s shaking shoulder. If his words caused this much distress, how damaging would his hand be?

            “Dean, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. Look at me, Dean, please.”

            Dean’s fingers tightened in his shaggy hair. He curled further in on himself, trying to escape whatever horror Sam’s words were causing.

            Trying valiantly to keep the tears from his eyes and voice, Sam tried again. “Dean, I’m here. You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay: we fixed it. You and me.”

            Dean’s reaction didn’t change. He shuffled backwards on his bare feet, trying to get away from Sam, but the table behind him held him trapped.

            Unable to bear the soft moans any longer, Sam reached out and laid his hand gently on Dean’s bare shoulder.

            Dean cried out at the contact and jerked backwards, his hands rising instinctively to protect himself. Which gave Sam an unobstructed view of his brother’s face.

            Sam remembered, when Dean had been in Hell, trying to imagine what tortures his brother was enduring, and, if he ever figured out a way to bring him back, how he would look.

            None of Sam’s nightmares had ever achieved the detail of torment he now saw in his brother’s gaunt, skeletal face.

            Dean’s eyes were sunken and ringed with dark shadows, thrown into sharp relief by the paleness of his skin. His cheeks were hollowed to the point that he looked more like a cadaver than a living human. His lips were pale and cracked, hair disheveled, his freckles like flecks of shrapnel scattered across his face.

            All of that, Sam probably could have handled.

            But then he met Dean’s eyes.

            It was as though every hurt Dean had ever felt was laid out in the dark, dead-looking irises. A pain Sam had only ever felt was as clear to see in Dean’s eyes as the freckles on his nose. Worse still, Dean’s eyes seemed deeper than Sam had ever seen them, and he knew instinctively why. For the first time in his life, he was looking into his brother’s unguarded eyes. No walls separated what Dean was feeling from Sam’s gaze, and eyes had never been so expressive. Sam could see, could almost feel Dean’s longing for – what? Comfort? Death?

            Tears broke through Sam’s defenses and raced each other over his lids as though trying to get to his brother. For one moment, Sam allowed himself to feel overwhelmed and acutely young. Then he blinked.

            “Dean?” His voice cracked but he ignored it, reaching his hand slowly out to Dean.

            Dean’s eyes darted from Sam’s hand to his face and back, looking terrified. “Please,” he begged in a choked whisper.

            “What? Please what, Dean?”

            _“Please,”_ he repeated, his eyes boring into Sam’s imploringly. “Please don’t hurt me.”

            Sam fought to smile, pretending to ignore Dean’s answering flinch. “I am not going to hurt you, Dean,” he said slowly and clearly. “I promise you. I’m here to help you.”

            Dean’s eyebrows twitched momentarily. “You’re different.”

            “Different?”

            “From the other Sams. You’re older.”

            Trying to keep up, Sam nodded. “I’m not a memory, Dean. I’m me.” Dean’s eyes widened. “You’re asleep, so I took some African Dream Root to come help.”

            Dean regarded him warily for a long moment. “Asleep?”

            Sam nodded, his smile widening. “Yeah. Well, in a coma technically.”

            “Coma.”

            “Yeah, Dean. So I’m here to help you wake up.”

            “I’m still alive?”

            The question caught Sam off guard. “Yeah, Dean, of course you’re still alive.”

            Dean’s unshielded eyes couldn’t hide his disappointment. Before Sam could speak, Dean punched himself hard on the temples with both hands curled into thin fists. “No! No! No! No!”

            “Dean! Stop! _Dean!”_

            Sam took hold of Dean’s wrists. His fingers closed right around them as he pulled them away. Dean hung his head, shaking harder now. He was repeating his desperate mantra, his voice breaking.

            “Dean, it’s okay! It’s – it’s good you’re alive!” Sam’s voice hardened. “I need you to be alive. You hear me, Dean? I need you! You can’t leave me alone out there. That’s our deal, isn’t it? We take all the hits that keep coming, we lose everyone else, but we still have each other, right? You and me, come whatever, right?”

            Dean was sobbing. “No, you’re wrong, you’re wrong –”

            “I am not wrong Dean!”

            “You don’t want me, you can’t want me.” Dean sobbed as the strength went out of his arms and he sagged in Sam’s grip.

            Sam let one wrist flop to the floor and took a firm hold of Dean’s chin, forcing him to look into his burning gaze.

            “Don’t you think that. Not for one second, Dean. Not for _one_ second. You’re my _brother_ , Dean. I need you. Of course I want you. You think I’d be here if I didn’t?” Dean’s tortured gaze searched Sam’s as though looking for the lie. Hope, faint and weak, kindled in the dark green irises.

            “I’m not letting you go anywhere, big brother. You’re coming home with me.”

            Just as Dean’s features twitched into a timidly hopeful expression, Sam heard a low chuckle behind him. He saw Dean’s eyes flicker to the source of the sound and widen in unbridled terror, obliterating all traces of hope.

            Sam turned, rising to his feet and putting himself between Dean and whatever had just caused such fear to return to his brother’s eyes.

            It was Dean.

            A healthier, fully clothed Dean leaned casually against the open door with his arms folded and his bearded mouth curved into a smile Sam didn’t recognise.

            This Dean’s eyes were black.

            “No,” Sam growled, disbelieving. “We got rid of you. We burned you away!”

            The demon Dean chuckled again. “Not quite, Sam. You tried, but, not quite.”

            “How?” Sam demanded, his voice filling the room like thunder.

            “Y’know how all those fancy cleaning products only kill, like, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of bacteria?” He held up a hand. “Point-one percent.”

            “I don’t understand!”

            “I don’t expect you to. It’s really very complicated.”

            “Get,” Sam spat, “out of here.”

            “Would if I could, kid, but, eh, I have unfinished business with that, uh, ‘man’ behind you.”

            Sam could feel Dean trembling and chanced a half-glance in his direction. He was backed against the wall, staring at his demon self, his eyes wide and staring.

            “Y’see,” the demon continued, “those chains there that’re all over your dear bro? The ones you can see? They mean that me and the Mark, well, we’ve still got a claim on this soul.” The smile vanished as the demon fixed Sam with a fierce scowl. “And we don’t give up so easy.”

            The demon sank into a crouch and lunged for Sam’s throat, clawed hands outstretched. Before he could react, Sam felt Dean brush against his leg, his arm pushing against his stomach, forcing him back and out of harm’s way. Sam’s eyes widened in horror as he fell backwards, watching the chained, battered Dean rise up to meet his demon counterpart, both yelling, both reaching for the other.

            Sam’s head hit the salted iron wall with a loud _thwack_ and –

 

            – he bolted upright in his chair beside Dean’s bed.

            “Sam? Sam!”

            It took a long moment for Cas’s voice to register. Sam gaped at him, disorientated, his arms outstretched to pull Dean back.

            “Sam! What happened?”

            Cas’s commanding voice centered Sam’s attention. He anchored himself to his friend’s familiar face.

            “What happened?”

            “Yes, that’s what I want to know!”

            Sam looked to Dean. He was lying exactly how he’d left him. Compared to the specter he had encountered in Dean’s mind, the Dean lying under the thin blankets looked positively chubby. His cheekbones were far more prominent than they should be, and the freckles were too noticeable against the pale skin, but at least he looked alive.

            “Sam, don’t make me beat it out of you! What the hell happened in there?” Cas was shouting. Sam looked back up at him, focusing.

            “I found Dean in Bobby’s house. It was a wreck. Dean was ... was worse.”

            “Worse?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Than what?”

            “Than here,” Sam said hollowly, gesturing to the motionless figure on the bed. “Worse than the ruin of Bobby’s place. Worse than I’ve ever seen him.”

            “But you saw him? And you’re sure it was him, not a phantom?”

            “I’m sure.” There was no mistaking the reality of the suffering in those haunting eyes.

            “Sam Winchester, I swear to my father if you don’t spit it out, I’ll –”

            “Sorry, Cas,” Sam interrupted. “It’s ... I found him in the panic room. He looked awful. He didn’t recognise me at first. He didn’t know me. Once he did, he was terrified of me, convinced I was going to hurt him.”

            “His soulsickness must be using your form to torment him.”

            “Yeah,” Sam grunted sarcastically. “Great.”

            Cas looked abashed and gestured for Sam to continue.

            “He was just starting to listen to me when his, I dunno, his demon self arrived. Looked just like Dean did a few months ago, just cockier. If that’s possible. That Dean came at me and then the other Dean, the real Dean, pushed me out of the way and went to meet him. I hit my head.”

            “So when you left, Dean was fighting the demon?”

            “I didn’t leave, I was evicted! I thought dream walkers could only wake up when the sleeper did?”

            “Well, Dean isn’t exactly sleeping, now, is he,” Cas said pointedly. “And I suppose it’s possible he forced you out so the demon couldn’t harm you.”

            Sam smiled sadly. “Knowing him, that’s probably what happened.” He looked over to his comatose brother. “But at what cost?”

            There was a very uncomfortable pause.

            “At least you tried, Sam,” Cas said softly.

            Sam was too tired to respond. He felt drained. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. “I’m gonna get some sleep, then try again.”

            He could almost feel Cas’s look of disapproval boring into the back of his head but he ignored it. He scooted his chair closer to the bed and slumped forward, resting his subtly pounding head on his arms. He kept one hand almost touching Dean’s, so he would feel it if it moved and wake up. _When_ it moved.

            He heard a rustling behind him, followed by the gentle weight of Cas’s coat settling over his shoulders. He mumbled a barely audible, “Thanks Cas”, and moments later felt the welcoming pull of sleep tug his eyelids shut.


	60. Hopeless

            The darkness had won. All light had been sucked from the world, leaving only the impenetrable blackness pressing in on him from all sides with a physical force. It was cold, restricting his breathing to ragged, irregular gasps. Or was it his fear that fed that staccato rhythm?

            Dean lay on his side in the darkness, his wide eyes searching the deep black futilely for any hint of light or danger, listening to his uncontrollable gasps.

            He didn’t know where the demon had gone. He couldn’t remember what had happened after making contact with the creature’s flesh. He didn’t know how long he’d been here, either. Apart from the constant terror of not knowing where he or the demon was, this was probably the most calm he’d felt in a long time. Sure, the darkness burned like ice and his body ached like he’d just gone nine rounds with a demented poltergeist, but his new blindness had a strange sort of comfort to it. All he could hear was his own breathing. There were no footsteps, no stranger’s breath. He was alone and therefore safe. No one was hurting him.

            And he knew Sam was safe.

            That thought was like a small fire inside his chest, keeping the coldness at bay. He had saved Sam from the demon. He’d done something good. That knowledge gave him hope. Surely, _surely_ he couldn’t be completely evil if he had some speck of good in him? If he had hope?

            Even the fact that Sam had been there was comforting. He was almost sure it had really been him. He’d been older than all the Sams he’d been seeing lately, and he’d said “I’m me”, not “I’m you”. None of the other Sams had said that. Which meant that Sam cared enough to come find him, wherever he was. He’d said he wanted him. That can’t have been a lie, could it? If it was really Sam and he was really there, then he must have meant it. He wanted Dean back. He wanted him to wake up.

            Dean felt his breathing begin to even out, each breath coming a little more easily, a little more deeply. The warmth in his chest seemed to be spreading, bringing with it a fragile calm.

            Moving slowly, Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, becoming aware as he did so that the heavy, ice-cold chains that had bound him had disappeared. Well, that was something. He found there was a smooth, hard surface behind him and leant his back against it. It was colder than marble. He ignored his shivers: he needed to think.

            If Sam had been telling the truth, and he was still alive and in a coma, then that meant he had a choice to make. Either he could figure out a way to fight his way back to consciousness, or he could stop, relax, and allow himself to die. Which would most likely mean going to Hell. With the Veil full and Heaven closed, not even Cas could smuggle him through the Pearly Gates. Provided he’d even want to. So, that meant the only place he could go was Hell.

            Dean was not overly fond of Hell.

            He blinked in the blackness. He’d known for years that his road would end there. That everything he had been would be burned and carved away and his soul would turn black and that he would one day become the thing he hated most. As fate would have it, he managed that without a trip to Hell. Dean had to admit he hadn’t seen that one coming.

            And it made everything acutely worse.

            He now knew what he was capable of as a demon. Before, it had all just been murky nightmares and avoided thoughts as black as his old eyes. Now, he knew precisely what manner of demon he was. He had become the villain he’d spent his life hunting. So many families, whether they knew it or not, had their own Azazel. How many lives would be sucked into the abyss of revenge? How many would die before achieving it? How many would lose their mothers and fathers the way he had? How many would watch their siblings die? How many would run themselves into the ground, into the tip of a knife for the same reason he had? How many people would fall asleep as he had, imagining his fingers crush the life out of a faceless foe?

            That hunter, Melanie Harker. She was just the first. There would be more. She wouldn’t be the only one to devote their lives to killing him.

            He’d deserve every death they imagined.

            What he had done, all the death and suffering he had caused, had committed ... how could he possibly come back from that? Even if he could somehow wake up, how could he ever look into Sam’s eyes again? Or Cas’s? He had become everything they fought against. For god’s sake, he had tried to _kill_ Sammy!

            That thought was what scared Dean the most. If he could be so removed from himself that he would want – really want – to kill Sam, how could he ever be sure he’d come back to himself? How could he know for certain that that darkness in him was gone? Or even contained? If he went back, knowing his life, some curse or spell or demon could take a hold of his mind, and if they felt this evil in him, if they unleashed it ... How could he expect to be saved again? To be given yet another chance he didn’t deserve?

            Yet dying meant Hell which meant becoming that thing again some day. That was guaranteed. He had proven ten years ago that he wasn’t strong enough to resist Hell’s torture. It didn’t matter that Alistair was gone; he’d had plenty of apprentices. Dean would scream until he made others scream and then one day the last speck of his humanity would escape him and there would be no one to kill him. By the time he made it out of Hell, Sam would probably be dead. If he woke up and miraculously recovered from all this, was somehow able to function, he would still die some day and be lost.

            So what was the point in prolonging the inevitable? Why should he fight against this freezing, crushing blackness? Why not just give in and become the monster he was always destined to be? There was no escaping it. Why not welcome what was coming to him?

            Dean put a hand to his forehead, needing to feel something in the darkness. His fingers were cold against his skin and he could feel dried blood on his temple.

            He could just give up. Sam would think the demon won. Dean supposed he had.

            Sam would be all right. He’d find a girl, go back to school or keep researching the Men of Letters. He’d proven twice that he was the exception: he could leave the life of a hunter. Without Dean dragging him back, he had a chance to live out Dean’s happily ever after: grow old and have kids who weren’t afraid of the dark. Cas would watch over them. He could keep any vengeful monsters away from them, keep them safe.

            Safe.

            Sam had never felt safe in his life. Their version of ‘safe’ was relative. No immediate danger and a salt line under the door and windows meant ‘safe’ for them. Sam could be properly safe. No longer a target, no longer carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His kids would think the wild stories their dad told them about ghosts and werewolves and vampires were just that: stories. His kids could have the life he and Dean had always wanted. They’d have a dad who’d be home to tuck them in, a mom to cut the crusts off their PB and J’s. They’d start and graduate the same high school. They’d only travel on vacations.

            Dean smiled at the image of faceless nieces and nephews running into his brother’s arms, being scooped up into the air and bundled into Baby, whose trunk was full of suitcases and a cooler of beer. Of a woman waiting in the passenger seat, laughing as the kids pretended to fight their dad off as he belted them into their car seats.

            Dean’s shoulders began to shake. They’d listen to Disney songs on their way to see the Grand Canyon – just to see it, not because they were close by for ‘dad’s work’. Just a family going on a trip together. Staying in a hotel, ‘cause Sam had a proper job and could afford a legit credit card. The kids would think it was such a novelty, staying in the fancy room with the minibar and fresh towels every day. They’d take photos at the Canyon, get them framed and put them up their house, like Mom had done. A house that would be a home. One that would last forever, one that wouldn’t burn up in a supposedly random fire.

            Tears trickled down from under Dean’s shaking palm. He wondered what names Sam would call out into the backyard when it was time for dinner – a proper pot roast, not mac and cheese with Lucky Charms for dessert. Bobby, probably. And Jess. A Bobby and Jess who would never know the true evils that filled the world. Who would never know how it had consumed their uncle. He would just be a sad story, nothing more. Just a story with no happy ending to sate their curiosity when they were old enough and asked Sam things he couldn’t lie about anymore.

            But that was a happy ending. It was the only happy ending Dean ever hoped for. And he could allow it to happen. All he had to do was die.

            That wasn’t so hard. He’d done it plenty of times. You just ... let go. Everything goes quiet and still for a moment, and then you wake up.

            In Hell.

            Where he belonged.

            Dean’s shoulders shook harder and he brought his other hand to cover the first, clutching his forehead with trembling fingers. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right.

            _“I’m scared,”_ he whispered into the blackness, his voice catching on his own cowardice.

            Footsteps moved slowly towards him. He froze. Unable to lower his hands, he stared wide-eyed at his bloodied palms as the newcomer moved closer. Only then did he realise that he could see again. There was a dim bluish light coming from directly in front of him, behind whatever was stopping above him. Dean’s breath halted. Bare feet waited inches from his own. Tiny, frightened gasps replaced the silence as the stranger knelt in front of him. Dean tensed, waiting for the pain that would undoubtedly start any second.

            Fingers that were deceptively gentle wrapped around Dean’s wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. His chest heaving now, he looked into the face lit by the blue-white glow.

            “Oh, Dean,” his mother whispered. “You don’t have to be scared, my little angel. I’m here.”


	61. Lifeline

            Dean stared for a long moment. She looked just as she always did. Blonde hair tumbling over her nightdress, smiling, eyes full of love. Dean drank in her appearance, savouring that look in her eyes. Then he remembered.

            Slowly, gently, he pulled his arms out of her grip, curling them against his stomach and pulling his knees up to shield them. He fixed his gaze on his little toe and clutched at his ribs as he waited for the torment to begin.

            “Dean,” she whispered sadly, putting a hand on his cheek.

            He quivered slightly. The touch felt so real. He could feel her warmth. Her voice was like a salve to the screaming that echoed inside his head. He frowned slightly at his toe as he began to shake again. He didn’t think he could take this. Not her. Not her as well.

            “Dean, please. Look at me.” She pressed her palm into his cheek for a moment, not forcing his head up but silently encouraging it.

            No. No, he couldn’t. This was one face he just couldn’t bear to see with black eyes. Send Dad back, or Bobby. Hell, even Sam. Anyone but her.

            “Please, Dean.” Her soft pleas were a torture in and of themselves. He hated refusing her. “Please, baby, let me see those big green eyes of yours.”

            He could hear her smile in her words. He couldn’t blink; he just stared at his toe, paralyzed. A tear fell from his shaking lashes and splashed onto his arm. He flinched as though it had hurt.

            “Oh, Dean. My brave boy.”

            She withdrew her hand from his cheek and though he wanted to beg her to leave it there, he remained silent. If he didn’t react to them, they went away faster.

            Silence fell between them for a time, save their breathing. Hers deep and steady, his loud and ragged.

            Dean wanted nothing more than to look into her eyes again, but he was afraid they would turn black. He wanted to feel her arms around him, but was scared they would turn to knives.

            Then she began to hum. Softly at first, hardly audible, not loud enough to startle him. Soon the unmistakable melody of _Hey Jude_ filled the air around Dean. It warmed him, soothed him, reminded him of all those nights as a baby being gently lulled to sleep. He almost looked up then. Almost.

            After a while, his shaking subsided. His shoulders ached from tension, but he couldn’t relax them. She could strike at any moment.

            Except she didn’t. Time crawled by, but she never moved. Was this part of the game? Make him think she wasn’t going to hurt him before it started? Try to convince him she was different? The last note of the chorus faded sweetly into the still air. Dean wished she would continue. It hadn’t hurt.

            Finally, she broke the silence. Amused exasperation coloured her tone. “Dean, how much longer are you going to make me wait? You used to run to hug me when you were little.” She ducked her head lower to look into his averted eyes. “Too old for that now, huh?”

            Dean couldn’t help it – he met her gaze for a moment. She was smiling that tight-lipped smile that made her look as though she was fighting back a laugh. Her eyes twinkled under her lashes. They were blue.

            He took a deep breath. His voice still shook. “Are you one of them? The phantoms?”

            “No, Dean. I’m not here to hurt you, sweetheart. I’m here to help.”

            Tears blurred his vision. His fingers dug between his ribs, trying to distract himself from the ache in his heart. “How can I trust that?”

            “You mean how can you trust me? That’s a good question, I suppose. Every other phantom that’s come has hurt you. Even John and Sam. But I’m not a phantom, Dean. I’m ... more of a memory.”

            “And they weren’t?”

            “No. They used your memories to take form. They were the demon, Dean. They weren’t your family. But I am.”

            God, he’d never wanted anything to be true so much in his life.

            “I promise you, Dean. I would _never_ hurt you. I only want to help you. You have no idea how much it hurts me, seeing you like this. I just want to make it stop.”

            Dean could hear the tears in her voice. He could hear her pain.

            He looked up. Her brow was bunched over her brimming eyes and she was biting her bottom lip to stop it quivering.

            _Screw the phantoms,_ Dean thought, as, in a rush, he uncurled himself and threw his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin, soothing her.

            “It’s okay, Mom,” he whispered, and for the first time his voice was steady. “I’m all right. You don’t have to cry.”

            He felt her chuckle sadly against his chest.

            “That’s my Dean. Always taking care of everyone else.” She pulled out from under his chin and looked up at him, putting her hand against his cheek once more. He leant into her touch, closing his eyes and savouring the steady pulse he could feel in her fingertips. Her other hand pressed against his other cheek and he opened his eyes to meet her sweet gaze. “Never letting anyone take care of you.”

            Curling one arm around his shoulders, she drew him into a tight hug, resting his head against her chest. He could hear her heart beat out its steady rhythm. Slowly, he put his arms around her, hugging her back as she held him and rubbed soothing circles on his back.

            “That’s it, Dean,” she cooed. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m here.”

            And for the first time in so long he couldn’t remember, Dean Winchester felt safe.

 

            The blue-white light had seeped into the Panic Room, illuminating its rough walls and two silent inhabitants. Slowly, the darkness receded into shadowy corners. Dean sat on the floor beside his mother. He was smiling.

            “I didn’t tell John for four days, not until I’d taken about five pregnancy tests. I wanted to be sure. I wish you could’ve seen his face – I should have thought to take a picture. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wider than I’d ever seen them, and for a minute he just stared at me, looking from my face to my belly.” Mary laughed at the memory and the sound made Dean’s grin widen. “Then, after so long I thought I’d broken him, this huge smile lit up his whole face and he scooped me up in his arms and danced me around the kitchen, laughing like a madman. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy.”

            Dean gazed at his mother, transfixed by her words and the joyous life glinting in her eyes as she spoke them. It made her look younger.

            “And then when you were growing, I had the biggest cravings for cheeseburgers. I swear – we kept that Biggerson’s open single-handedly.” She laughed again, pushing her hair back from her face. “We spent two months getting the nursery all ready, bargain hunting for cots and baby clothes. Your dad found a tiny cowboy hat in one store and begged me to let him buy it. He was so excited. I was too, but also terrified.” She glanced over at him, her eyes alight with the memories. “I didn’t know how to be a mom. I was still getting used to a life without hunting.

            “But then you arrived.” She beamed, her eyes brimming with tears, and she reached out her hand to Dean’s head, stroking his temple with her thumb. “All my fear just disappeared when I saw you. You were so tiny. They wrapped you up and brought you over and you fit so perfectly in my arms it was like they’d been made to hold you. I remember thinking, _‘Wow. He’s so beautiful.’_ I was so happy to be your mom, Dean. And when you wrapped your tiny little fingers around mine and held on so tight, I knew I had someone special in my arms. You opened your eyes and looked up at me, and you yawned and just went to sleep, still holding on to me. You were so tiny, so helpless. And I kept thinking of all the ghosts and werewolves and all the monsters I’d grown up having nightmares about and I promised myself right then that I would always protect you from them. That I’d always keep you safe.”

            Tears were trickling down her cheeks and choking her words now. Dean felt tears of his own burn behind his eyes as he watched her.

            “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep that promise.”

            Dean shook his head, taking her hand in his. “It’s okay, Mom. You don’t have to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

            “I know,” she said, smiling as she blinked back her tears. “I know. I just wish I could have been there for you and Sam. I wish I could have saved you from all of this.” She gestured grandly to the room, sniffing.

            Silence fell between them for a time. Dean wanted to hear more. John had never spoken of his early life. He never spoke about anything before the fire.

            Soon the smile returned to Mary’s lips.

            “You know, Dean, one of the best things about being a parent is watching your baby become a person. Seeing their personality develop and take shape. By the time you were two, I knew exactly who you’d be.”

            “You did?”

            “Oh yes. Without a doubt. There was this one day: I was sick with a bad cold and John was at work. I’d just got you settled in your room, playing with your toys on the floor. I left the door open and lay down in bed for a quick nap – just ten minutes before lunch. About half an hour later I woke up coughing. It wasn’t half as bad as it sounded, but you came running into my room asking me what was wrong. I said I just needed a drink and you left. Then you came back with a glass full to the brim of apple juice – your favourite. I knew the carton was almost gone, so you must have fitted every last drop into it. It had dribbled down the sides a little but you got it up the stairs to me anyway. And you gave it to me and sat up on the bed beside me and didn’t leave until I’d drank it all.”

            She chuckled and looked up at Dean. “That’s when I was sure.”

            “About what?”

            She smiled. “A mother can see the truest core of her child, Dean, for good or for bad. And do you know what your core has always been, Dean?”

            “No.” He was afraid to hear the next words.

            “Love.”

            There was a pause.

            “Love?” he asked, confused.

            “Yep. Love, Dean. Even when you were little, it was obvious. You have such a big heart. Even after everything you’ve been through, you put everyone else first. You’ve spent your life saving others, helping them feel safe. All those times you’ve saved Sam. I mean, you sold your soul for him, Dean. What else could there be but love?”

            Dean glanced away uncertainly. What else? Try evil, shame, guilt, blood ... He was a killer. Any love in him had been turned sour by his poisonous soul.

            Mary took his chin in her fingers and turned his head to look her squarely in the eyes. One eyebrow cocked slightly in a way he remembered meant she was serious. “You, Dean Winchester, are not evil. You never have been, nor will you ever be. You are a _good_ _man_ , Dean. And a great one. You love me, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.

            “Of course I do, Mom. You know that.”

            “And do you trust me?”

            “Yeah …?”

            “Then trust me in this: you, my little angel, _deserve_ to be saved.”

            Dean looked from one bright eye to the other, searching the loving gaze for any hint of a lie. He saw none.

            “You really believe that?” he asked, his voice lower than a whisper.

            “I know it, Dean,” she replied firmly. “I know it.”

            A small smile tugged at Dean’s lips.

            “And better yet,” she continued after a moment, “I can prove it to you.”


	62. A Mother's Love

            It took Dean a few moments to recognise the clean halls and fluorescent lighting as belonging to a hospital. After the soft lighting of the Panic Room, the long bulbs were painfully bright. Mary stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

            “Where are we?” he asked.

            “Lawrence Memorial Hospital.”

            “Why?”

            “Just wait and see,” she said with a smile, squeezing his shoulder.

            At that moment, John Winchester strode around the far corner, holding the hand of a small boy with bright blond hair.

            “That’s me!” Dean exclaimed, staring at himself. Having only one faded photograph of himself at this age – he guessed about three or four – it was weird to be able to see himself so clearly.

            “Of course. This is your memory, Dean.”

            “It is? What –”

            He stopped himself to catch John’s words.

            “Are you excited, Dean?”

            “Yeah!” the young boy cheered. It was obviously an understatement: he was more skipping than walking down the hall. It looked like John’s firm grip was the only thing stopping him from taking off.

            Dean looked at his father’s hand holding his younger self’s. He couldn’t remember that. What had that felt like?

            “Are you sure?” John teased. “‘Cause we could always come back tomo –”

            “No, no, I wanna meet him! You said today!”

            John laughed. “Then today it is. Come on, kiddo, they’re just in here.”

            John led the toddler Dean into a room to their left and, not needing the encouraging nudge from his mother, Dean followed.

            As soon as he crossed the threshold, Dean remembered. He hadn’t thought of this in so long he hadn’t realised he still held the memory inside his head.

            Mary was lying on the bed, a tiny wriggling bundle held securely in her arms.

            Dean stared as his younger self bounced up onto the bed, unable to contain his excitement. When Mary shushed him, he instantly calmed, peaking curiously into the swaddled blankets. Dean stepped forward and stood on the opposite side of the bed and looked down into the tiny wrinkled face of his baby brother.

            Sam’s eyes were closed and he was yawning. Dean gaped at him. His tiny fist was pushing gently against the folds of the blanket that separated him from his mother. Dean blinked. There was no way this tiny little yawner grew into the mammoth of a man he’d seen kill a vampire with his bare hands. No way.

            “That’s Sammy?” he whispered to his mother.

            “Mm-hmm,” she answered proudly, and he could hear her tight-lipped smile.

            “Is that my brother?” the young Dean asked, looking comically from his mother’s face to his brother’s, his hair swirling around his head with the speed of his turning.

            “Yes, Dean,” the memory Mary said, beaming. “This” – she pushed the blanket down a bit to give Dean a clearer view of the little face – “is Sammy.”

            The child Dean’s face mirrored that of his older self: mouth hanging open, eyes alight, he leant forward to peer into the blankets just as little Sammy opened his bleary eyes.

            “Hi, Sammy,” both Deans whispered together.

            The baby gurgled quietly and Dean smiled. His memory self grinned too, revealing a missing bottom tooth.

            “I’m Dean Winshestur,” the boy whispered as his parents shared a smile over his head. “I’m your big brother, Sammy.” Struck by a thought, he looked up to his mother. “Can I be the one to take care of him sometimes?”

            Mary beamed and glanced to John, whose eyes were uncharacteristically moist. “Of course you can, Dean. We’re gonna need your help taking care of this little fella.”

            Dean’s grin looked too big for his face as he returned his attention to the baby who was looking curiously from one face to the next. “I’m gonna take care o’ you, Sammy. We gonna have a lotta aventures. You can play with my racetrack if you want.”

            John chuckled. “I think he might be a bit young for the racetrack, kiddo.”

            “Oh.” The young boy was momentarily stumped. “Well then he can have Mikey for naps,” he announced.

            As Dean looked from happy face to happy face, he thought of Sam. He looked more closely at his parent’s beaming faces, at how there were definitely tears forming in his father’s eyes. He had to remember to tell Sam about this.

            He felt a gentle tug on his shoulder and looked around.

            “Come on, sweetheart,” his mother said softly. “Time to move on.”

 

*****

 

            Mary brought him to a motel room he half-recognised. The twin beds backed onto a wall adorned with a stuffed stag’s head, complete with three-tined antlers. An old shirt Dean recognised covered the deer’s staring eyes, and he remembered throwing the shirt over them because Sammy was getting freaked out that it was watching him.

            Dean looked around for Sammy then, and found him curled into a ball on one of the beds, only the top of his shaggy head visible above the covers. A ten-year-old Dean sat at the tiny dinner table playing with a cling-filmed plate of mac and cheese.

            He walked over to the young boy and sat down on the empty lawn chair wannabe opposite him. The young Dean’s eyes flicked periodically from the cold plate of food to the resolutely closed door and back. Though Dean didn’t remember the night, he remembered this: staying up until Dad came home, food and liquor at the ready. Usually he’d be sent to bed within minutes of his father’s arrival, but at least he’d go to bed knowing John was safe, unlike Sam.

            Glancing around, Dean spied a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels waiting by the sink beside an inexpertly cleaned tumbler glass. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked in a smile. Tiny fingerprints dotted the outside of the glass, and Dean remembered the revolutionary night he realised those would disappear if he washed the outside too, making the glass look as good as new.

            Mary had wandered over to the far bed and was kneeling down beside Sam, watching him as he slept. Dean smiled at that. Looking back to his younger self, the smile faded. Boy, he was scrawny. Sure, he was probably more muscled than the average ten-year-old, but his elbows and wrists were more prominent than looked healthy. Dean frowned. He didn’t remember being so thin. He remembered being hungry, though, he supposed, and always wondering how much food he should save for tomorrow in case there wasn’t anything new. He just never realised that had shown physically, but he was definitely underweight. Dad had never mentioned it.

            Dean studied the small, thin face opposite him. Though he knew he shouldn’t be, he was surprised to see sadness as well as worry in the tight features. Why was he sad? Sam was sleeping soundly and Dad was due home any minute, judging by the plate of food standing ready.

            As if on cue, a key scraped in the lock. The ten-year-old Dean sprang to his feet as though he’d been electrocuted and sprinted to the door to undo the deadbolt and let the weary hunter lumber in. Dean rose to his feet, too, withdrawing slightly to lean against the tacky wallpaper.

            John Winchester looked haggard. He dumped his duffle bag beside the door with a metallic _clunk_ and trudged over to the table, taking the seat Dean had just vacated. He settled into the hard chair with a sigh, not even bothering to shrug off his coat. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Dean watched his younger self hesitate halfway between door and table, studying his father minutely. After a moment, he moved forward, grabbed the plate of food, unwrapped it, and placed it in the microwave. The machine’s droning hum filled the room.

            The young Dean waited by the microwave, casting sidelong looks at his father every few seconds. John stayed silent, looking almost as though he were praying. Dean watched his younger self glance from the microwave to the bottle of Jack Daniels to his father, clearly wondering which was needed first: food or drink.

            The microwave made the decision for him. Noticing just in time it was about to ding to a halt, Dean yanked the door open before it beeped, casting a relieved glance at Sam’s undisturbed form. He set the steaming plate of mac and cheese and a fork in front of John and took his seat opposite.

            “Dad?” Dean ventured after another long, silent moment. “You hungry?”

            John was a long time in answering. “Not so much, kiddo. Get me some Jack, will you?”

            Dean obliged. The chink of glass and rich gurgle of the liquor being poured filled the quiet motel room. John took the tumbler without a word and threw back half its contents in one well-practiced gulp.

            When he had taken his first sip from the second glassful, Dean carefully broke the silence. “How was the hunt, Dad?”

            John answered the liquor. “Rough. Wolf’s dead, though. Got another two before I could drop him.” Another swig of bronze followed his words.

            “But you killed him. He’s not gonna hurt anyone else, right?”

            John glanced at his son before answering, managing a small smile. “Yeah. S’pose you’re right.”

            “You want some food, Dad?”

            John glanced wearily from Dean to the plate of cheesy pasta. With a slight smile, he pulled the plate closer and dug in. Dean smiled triumphantly.

            “How was Sammy?” John asked around a mouthful of macaroni.

            “Fine,” Dean replied with the air of someone giving a long-since boring daily report. “He did his homework, practiced cleaning the Magnum, read his book for a while, watched TV and was in bed at eight-twenty.”

            John nodded his approval. “Did you practice field-stripping the .45?”

            “Yep.”

            “Time?”

            “Two minutes eight seconds.”

            John grunted disapprovingly. “We need that under one minute, Dean. You gotta put the time in, really work hard at it.”

            “Okay, Dad.”

            John, looking down at his plate, didn’t see his son’s brow bunch briefly in shame at the reprimand.

            Silence fell between them again as John finished his meal. When the fork clattered to the plate for the last time, John stood up. He left the plate in the sink and went to sit on the age-sagged couch, unstrapping his boots and pulling off his jacket. Dean remained at the table, clearly wrestling with something. In the end, his desire to speak won.

            “Dad?”

            “Ten minutes to bed, Dean.”

            “You know what day it is, Dad?”

            “Wednesday. No, Thursday, now. Why?” John didn’t look up. “I miss something in school?”

            “No, it’s ...” Dean’s hands were wrestling each other on the table, his nails digging into his knuckles and he struggled to say the words. He looked horribly uncomfortable.

            “Well what, Dean?” John asked exasperatedly, finally freeing his foot from his boot and looking up wearily at his eldest.

            “It’s the twenty-fourth and you said we could go out for dinner as a family,” Dean said in a rush. “Could we maybe do it tomorrow?”

            For a moment, John stared at Dean in confusion. Dean carefully avoided his eye, looking at his interlocked fingers. At last, John connected the dots.

            “Damn,” he sighed angrily. “Dean, I’m sorry. Your birthday. I completely forgot. This werewolf case just took all my focus and, I mean, people were dying and I had to –”

            “It’s okay, Dad,” Dean said quickly, still studying his knuckles. “I know. Just ... just wanted to know if we could do dinner tomorrow, that’s all. If we have the money and you don’t have a hunt. Didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Just wondering.”

            John smiled sadly at his son. He stood up and went to kneel beside him, putting one hand on the thin shoulder. Dean glanced to his father then back to his hands.

            “I promise, kiddo. Tomorrow, you, me, and Sammy’ll go down to that seaside shack we saw coming in the other day. The one with the big burger sign in the window? We’ll all have dinner, as a family, and maybe after we can check out the beach. How’s that sound?”

            John rocked Dean’s shoulder persuasively. It worked. Dean’s lips curved into a smile, revealing a missing tooth. He gave his father a swift hug.

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            John wrapped his beefy arms around his son’s thin frame, holding him close for a moment before releasing him. “Anytime, son.”

            Mary had moved to Dean’s side without him noticing, focused as he was on the memory. He started when she whispered, “C’mon, sweetheart. There’s more you need to see.”

            Dean felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder and the scene before him dissolved into blackness.


	63. Hunter

            Twisting clouds of colour emerged from the blackness and coalesced themselves into a new scene. Dean stood beside his mother in an old house he knew he would never forget. The peeling wallpaper and broken lampshades, the bare and rotting wooden floor and missing windows had been etched in minute detail into Dean’s memory when he was fourteen years old. He knew that if he walked through the spacious ex-living room, down the hall and out through the front door – which would be clinging to the jamb by one valiant hinge – he’d see the rusted metal ‘24601’ house number, with the two and zero hanging on for dear life and the missing four discernible only by the lack of sun-bleached wood it left behind.

            This was where Dean truly became a hunter.

            He remembered the case as well as he did the house. John, having allowed Dean to accompany him on the more predictable, ‘safer’ hunts for almost a year, hadn’t thought twice about bringing his eldest along with him on this simple salt ’n’ burn. Sam had helped with the research, and John had packed his duffel full of salt rounds and iron pokers after identifying the owner and location of the troubled remains.

            It was the ghost of a smith who’d taken the industrial revolution hard, his hatred of the machines that stole his work anchoring him to the house of the man who had brought the motorcars into their small town. The smith, one Will Turner, resented the change. In life, he had protested against the slow replacement of horses that spanned most of his adult life, blaming the owner of the house, Jack Jones, for his job becoming obsolete. Sam had rambled on for a good half hour about how Turner had it all wrong and could have easily kept his career going smoothly if he’d only learnt a thing or two about the new engines. Instead, Turner chose to devote his life to hating Jones and his “confounded machines”. To add insult to injury, Jones had bought several of Turner’s tools to hang in his home as “antiques of a time gone by”. On the anniversary of the day his forge was shut down for good, Will Turner had resurfaced and murdered three teenagers and a police officer who’d trespassed on the property. As it didn’t seem likely that Turner would harbour any ill will toward anyone wanting to mess up the house he had so despised, and since one such hooligan had come on foot to the place, John had guessed that Turner targeted anyone who came near the house in anything more modern than a penny farthing. Since Turner had had himself cremated (his wife had left him to his obsession), John was positive the ghost had tied himself to one of his old tools.

            Getting to the house was easy. It was one of fifty or so dilapidated wrecks left to rot while newer, more energy efficient houses had been built a few miles down the road, and apart from the odd spray can-wielding teenager, the area was deserted.

            As far as cases went, this one was about as easy as it got. Textbook. Dean, who still relished the quality time with his heroic dad, had had to work hard to seem focused and serious. John did not approve of too much excitement on a job. It made you complacent, he said. And complacency led to deaths. Duly sobered and eager for the night of action, Dean had triple-checked his sawn-off and his ammo, then slid into the passenger seat of the Impala, ready to hunt.

            In hindsight, it was bound to go wrong. Too many of Dean’s previous hunts had gone too smoothly, with only a few bruises, sprained ankle and one or two near misses to spice them up. It was only a matter of time before one of them went horribly wrong.

            And it had all gone wrong in this very house.

            Dean watched as his teenaged self entered from the hallway, followed closely by John Winchester.

            “How do we find the hammer?” Dean whispered to his father, his eyes scanning the living room minutely, passing right over the invisible forms of his mother and older self.

            “We look,” John returned shortly. “You take upstairs, I’ll check down here and the basement. Meet back here in ten.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Dean stalked carefully up the creaking staircase and inspected each room for anything matching the diagrams of blacksmith tools Sam had shown him.

Most of the rooms’ contents had been pillaged long before the killings had started. There was nothing but two broken wooden bed frames and half a porcelain sink in the upstairs rooms. As Dean searched the hallway for a route up to the attic, he heard his father cry out from downstairs, quickly followed by the creaking snaps of breaking wood. Feeling his heart leap into his throat, Dean flew down the stairs and back to the living room. He skidded to a halt in time to see his father lumber to his feet, a plank of wood falling from his back as he straightened.

            The ghost of William Turner materialized on the threshold to the next room. He glared from under unruly eyebrows at the two intruders. The leather smock he wore was torn and scorched from its years of use, dark enough to make the spirit’s pale skin stand out starkly in contrast.

            Without thinking, Dean brought his shotgun up and shot a round of salt right through the ghost’s chest. Swirling smoke and sparks dissipated into nothingness as Dean ran forward to help his father to his feet.

            “What happened?”

            “Came outta nowhere,” John gasped, grimacing as he clutched at his side. “Jumped me from behind.”

            “But why’s he after us? We left the Impala two blocks away!”

            “I don’t know, Dean! It doesn’t matter, just means we gotta hurry up. Nothing upstairs?”

            “No sir.”

            John nodded, seeming unsurprised. “Nothing here either. Must be in the basement.”

            On high alert now, Dean followed his father into the kitchen and down the rotting staircase into the dingy, dark basement. He kept swiveling his head around, determined not to be surprised by the ghost’s next attack. After barking a quick order to watch his back, John pulled out a flashlight and began searching through years of dust and mouldy newspapers dating back centuries. Clearly, Jones had been a hoarder.

            Several increasingly grumpy minutes of searching later, John let out a triumphant cry. “Got it!”

            With a clang, he threw the antique sledgehammer into the centre of the grimy floor and set about dousing it with lighter fluid. Dean gripped his gun more tightly, sure the ghost would reappear once it figured out what they were doing.

            John threw his lighter down onto the old hammer and flames _whoosh_ ed around it, licking the dented metal and consuming the wooden handle.

            Nothing happened.

            The ghost remained absent. They heard no distant shriek of eviction from the world of the living. Nothing.

            “Dad?”

            “I don’t know.” John stared at the old hammer, watching its handle fall to cinders at his feet. “It has to be the hammer, what else could it be?”

            “I dunno, maybe the – DAD!” Dean leapt forward, swinging his shotgun in a wide arc and colliding heavily with his father and shoving him out of the ghost’s clawed reach. It had come out of nowhere, appearing suddenly over John’s shoulder. Some old form of pliers were gripped menacingly in his overlong fingers, sailing through the air, aiming right for John Winchester’s heart.

            John thudded to the floor with a grunt, leaving Dean standing above him. Unconcerned, the pliers continued its graceful arc, plunging with a sickening, crunching _squelch_ into Dean’s left shoulder.

            Dean didn’t cry out. Shock choked his yell of pain into a barely audible gasp as he turned his head in time to see the weapon ripped from his flesh, followed by a spray of deep red.

            A shot rang out, echoing confusingly around the basement as the ghost disappeared. Dean fell back. John caught him before he hit the floor, cradling him in his arms for a brief moment before setting him down gently on the bare concrete.

            “Dean? Dean, you with me?”

            Pain stunned him. His vision was darkening around the edges. He could feel unconsciousness tugging at him, offering a release from the burning, stinging agony in his shoulder.

            A sharp slap on his cheek banished the darkness and his father’s face filled his vision.

            “Dean!”

            “ _Oow_ ...” he groaned.

            “Dean, you with me?”

            “Yeah, Dad. ‘M okay.” As the pain made itself known, Dean spoke through tightly gritted teeth in an effort to keep his voice steady.

            “Come on, we gotta get out of here.” John ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around Dean’s shoulder. Dean let out a yelp he quickly turned into a more manly-sounding grunt.

            “What about T-Turner?” he asked, blinking quickly, trying to clear his vision.

            “We’ll get Turner later; you need the hospital.”

            “No! Dad, I’m fine I sw –” As Dean spoke, his father pulled him to his feet by his good arm. The abrupt change in altitude and automatic stiffening of his shoulder muscles sent a powerful wave of pain and nausea washing over Dean and his words faded away as he swayed on his feet. John put an arm around him, steadying him.

            “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you. Let’s go.”

            They had made it just far enough to make Dean think the ghost would allow them to leave before it reappeared, its mouth open in a silent roar. Before either of them had a chance to move, they were thrown backwards. Unfortunately for Dean, there was a wall behind him. He crashed through the decaying drywall, wooden supports snapping as he fell in a plaster-dusted heap to the floor. John cried out as the arm he had wrapped around Dean whacked into the doorjamb and the rest of him sailed through the archway connecting living room and kitchen.

            Dean stirred, groaning openly as the pain of the impact zinged through him, swirling unbearably around his throbbing shoulder.

            “Daaad!” he half-groaned, half-yelled. He couldn’t see the ghost. Which probably meant it was after John.

            His breath hissing through clenched teeth, Dean pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled out of the ruined wall, back into the living room. It was empty. The boom of a shotgun blast made him turn. John was fighting the ghost in the kitchen, and the ghost seemed to be winning. It popped back behind John seconds after being shot and grabbed the hunter from behind, throwing him onto the old sink, which, miraculously, held under the grown man’s weight.

            “Dad!”

            “Dean – run!” His father grunted as let off another shot. Which meant he’d have to reload now, and be defenseless while he did.

            “Dad! Heads up!” Dean threw his semi-loaded shotgun to his father, who caught it deftly in one hand and whirled around, waiting for the ghost to reappear.

            _This isn’t going to work,_ Dean thought. The ghost was too strong, and he couldn’t cover his father with one arm and what he was he was fairly sure was a concussion. He looked around wildly. They had to find whatever was anchoring the ghost, and burn it. If it hadn’t been the sledgehammer, what else could it be? What else was there?

            Then it clicked.

            “DAD!” he bellowed, “Throw me the lighter fluid!”

            John shot him a glance as he swung the sawn-off around to face the ghost. He pumped the gun, fired it, then dug one hand in the pocket of his brown leather jacket and threw Dean the small bottle before reloading the gun in record time.

            “I’ll cover you!” he called after Dean seconds before being thrown violently back into the kitchen wall by Turner’s ghost.

            Dean ran – or rather, staggered – as fast as he could out of the room and up the stairs, tripping twice in his haste. The master bedroom was at the far end of the upstairs hall. Dean used the wall for support as he lurched towards it, his heart and breathing racing each other.

            Above the broken, derelict bedframe was a small ornament, hanging against the faded wallpaper over the head of the bed. At first glance, it looked like an artistic collection of arcing metal welded together to form an abstract, looping shape that vaguely resembled a shamrock. Upon closer inspection, it had been forged from several horseshoes.

            Dean limped over to it, wrenched it off the wall and flung it onto the wooden bedframe. Working as quickly as his clumsy hands and spinning head would allow, he unscrewed the lid from the bottle of lighter fluid and squirted more than half its contents over the twisted metal. He dug in his jeans pocket for his lighter and flicked it open. It wouldn’t light. He tried again, his thumb scraping against the metal gear. Again it sparked but didn’t catch. Letting out a frustrated groan, he tried again and, finally, a small wavering flame appeared over the silver square.

            Turner appeared on the opposite side of the old bed. They stared at each other for a long moment, waiting to see who would act first. Turner’s brown eyes were filled with hate. They burned into Dean. His heavy breathing filled the silence.

            At almost the same moment Dean threw the lighter onto the beaten horseshoes, Turner raised his arms and screamed. Dean felt himself lift into the air and fly backwards. He hit the wall and everything went black.

            He came around in the passenger seat of the Impala, his forehead pressed against the cool window. The roar of the engine’s acceleration comforted him.

            “Dean? You with me, son?”

            Trying not to move any more than was necessary, Dean looked around. His father’s profile was silhouetted against the flickering streetlights they zoomed past. “Hey, Dad,” he muttered.

            “You okay? How you feeling?”

            Dean groaned. “Arm hurts.”

            “Don’t worry. We’re on our way to the hospital. Just gotta pick Sammy up on the way.”

            That woke Dean up. He straightened in the seat too quickly and grunted in pain. “No, don’t get Sammy, Dad.”

            “Why the hell not?”

            “Dad, he’ll freak. Wait till I’m outta hospital. Don’t want him to see me like this. He’ll have nightmares.”

            John’s disapproving silence filled the car.

            “Fine,” he grunted at last, easing his foot down on the accelerator. Dean pressed into the back of the seat and closed his eyes, trying to breathe around the pain. After a few minutes, his father spoke. “You did good today, Dean.”

            Dean’s eyes flew open. “What?”

            “You did good, kid.”

            Dean looked over to his father, confused. “But I got hurt.”

            “Yeah, and you kept going. You saw me in danger and you protected me. When I couldn’t find the anchor you found it and killed that goddamn son of a bitch yourself, even though you were injured. That’s what makes a hunter, Dean. They keep going, no matter how much they hurt. They get the job done: they save people. They make sure no one else gets hurt by whatever evil scum they’re fighting. Today you became a hunter, Dean, as far as I’m concerned.”

            Dean blinked. For a moment, he didn’t feel his aching shoulder. Feeling awkward at the unexpected praise, he joked, “So does this mean I can take point on the next hunt?”

            John chuckled. “Nice try, Dean. You’re still my kid. And you’ve still got a hell of a lot to learn.”

            “Worth a try,” Dean muttered, turning back to the window so John wouldn’t see his smile.

            Mary laid a hand on Dean’s forearm in the back seat. “Ready for the next one?”

            Dean looked at her, his confusion plain on his face. “Why are you showing me all this? What’s the point?”

            “The point is that you figure out the point. There’s a lot more I want to show you.”

            “Are they all like this?”

            “Some of them. I want you to look at yourself Dean. See your actions as they were, without the emotions of the time clouding your judgment.”

            There was a pause.

            “Are you going to show me anything from ... this year?”

            Mary smiled and squeezed his arm. “No, Dean. I know you remember that just fine, and besides, it has nothing to do with why I’m showing you all this. This last year, that wasn’t you. I hope you’ll understand soon. Look into your memories, Dean. See them as I see them.”

            He gave her an uncertain glance.

            “Just try, Dean. For me.”

            Still not sure what or why this was happening, but not wanting to say goodbye to her, Dean nodded.

            “Good boy, Dean.” Mary smiled as the memory began to fade around them. “Just try.”


	64. Guardian Angel

            Cas hung back awkwardly at the door to Dean’s room, leaning against the doorframe. Sam was talking to Dean as though the two were reminiscing over a round of beers. The forced cheeriness in Sam’s voice was relentless, unwavering despite the futility of conversing with a dying comatose patient.

            Cas sighed. He was being harsh, he knew. Unable to find anything remotely helpful in the lore or online, Sam was doing the only thing he could think of to help his brother: reminding him of the good old days.

            Right now he was just coming to the end of a lengthy account of Sam’s graduation from high school. He had resigned himself to spending the day more or less alone. He’d even made plans to celebrate with his friends for a while before they were all brought out to dinner by their proud families. Dean and their father had been on a wendigo hunt one state over that had dragged on two days longer than they had originally thought. Sam described his odd sense of loneliness, graduating with a then-secret full ride to Stanford and a near-perfect GPA among a sea of smiling faces. This was an accomplishment he was proud of, yet he couldn’t share it with his father or brother. As he and the other graduates waited in line to receive their diplomas, Sam had stared dejectedly at the hem of the gown in front of him, not wanting to see the crowd of strangers. This amplified his surprise when he gave an awkward bow to the onlookers after shaking his principal’s hand and heard a familiar whoop. Looking up, he had seen a dirty and bruised Dean standing by the fire exit, clapping enthusiastically along with everyone else and beaming at Sam. After the ceremony, Dean, having excused himself to the men’s room to scrub some of the more obvious dirt from his face, had taken Sam out to dinner in an expensive local restaurant. When Sam had protested over the price of the meal – having tried and failed to get away with just ordering a salad – Dean had confessed that he’d been saving his hustling money for weeks to treat Sam on his “big nerd day”.

            The story made Cas smile. He admired the innate humanness of it. It was odd to him how much a meal with a brother could mean to someone. When Sam finished telling the tale, he smiled down at his brother. Cas could almost feel the hope radiating off him. He didn’t need to look into the hazel eyes to know what Sam was thinking. _Maybe this story will snap him out of it. Maybe this one._

            When Dean remained as motionless as had been for the past two weeks, Sam’s shoulders slumped, almost imperceptibly. Cas cleared his throat.

            “Any change?”

            Sam shook his head. He leant back in his chair with a sigh. “Nothing.”

            Cas stepped over the threshold and sat in his chair on Dean’s other side. He was two-thirds a shade paler than he had been that morning. Sam had shaved his ‘demon beard’ some time ago, and his usual stubble looked like flecks of dirt against the grey-tinged skin that was almost the same colour as the cannula. His cheekbones now cast noticeable shadows.

            “Maybe I should try the Dream Root again ...” Sam muttered, half to himself, Cas thought.

            “I don’t think that would be wise.”

            “You didn’t think it was wise last time,” Sam pointed out.

            “True. But he’s even weaker now. It took a toll on him, Sam. I don’t think he has the strength for it anymore.”

            Air huffed angrily out through the hunter’s nostrils.

            “Then what are we meant to do, Cas?” His voice was as tight as his jaw. “He’s dying, Metatron’s creating an angel army, there’s a Knight of Hell still out there, not to mention god knows how many demons who’re –” He stopped himself. Cas listened to his deep breathing for a moment, looking miserably at Dean. “Everything is wrong and there’s nothing we can do.”

            The question Cas had been wrestling with for the past three days finally found its answer in Sam Winchester’s unbearably sorrowful and defeated face. Taking a deep breath, Cas committed himself. “There is one thing that might help.”

            Sam looked at him sharply. “What?”

            Finding his interlocked fingers to be an easier thing to look at than the hunter’s laser-like gaze, Cas elaborated. “I had an idea. Dean isn’t a demon anymore; we know that. We also know that the Mark is, at least for now, contained, and that containment appears to be holding. We think. But.” Cas looked up at Sam. “It is possible that there is some lingering ... infection in Dean’s body.”

            “What d’you mean? Like some of the demon taint’s still there?”

            “Something like that.”

            “But I thought we burnt that away with Grace and blood?”

            “We did. It’s not likely there’s more than a few molecules – if any – left affecting Dean, but even if there isn’t, the cure took a lot out of him.”

            Sam huffed. “Yeah. I noticed.”

            “Well, what if his body isn’t producing new, pure blood? What if it’s the same blood that was tainted still flowing through him?”

            Sam glanced from Cas to Dean. His expression turned suspicious. “Cas, you once diagnosed a dead guy with a urinary infection by sniffing him. What are you trying to say?”

            Cas smiled. Then it faded. “Part of the reason Dean needs the IV and oxygen is because his organs are failing. His liver, kidneys, even his lungs are slowly shutting down. He is producing new blood cells, but for some reason I can’t explain for certain, they’re not helping his condition when they should be. It’s like ...” Cas cast his eyes around the small room, trying to think of simple enough words to explain what he intuitively knew to Sam. It was a complex concept. “Dean’s nuclei aren’t absorbing the energy they needed to function, and given the unusual circumstances of his illness, I think there’s more to it than a random failing.”

            “So,” Sam drawled, clearly wondering where this was going, “how do we fix it?”

            “I think ... a blood transfusion.”

            Sam’s eyebrows flicked upwards.

“What?” Cas asked, straightening up.

            “Nothing. I just thought it would be something a bit more complicated than that, that’s all,” he said haltingly.

            “Ah. Well,” Cas began.

            “Lemme guess,” Sam groaned, “it’s about to get complicated?”

            Cas chuckled humourlessly. “Yes. It’s hard to explain without using Enochian, but I think that if we give Dean a transfusion of pure, innocent blood, it would help him fight whatever battle is going on inside his head.”

            Sam studied his face, waiting for the catch. “‘Pure, innocent blood’,” he quoted dubiously. “You mean a virgin’s?”

            “Yes and no.”

            “What then? I’m guessing you don’t mean mine?”

            “No. I mean Dean’s.”

            There was a pause.

            “Dean’s?” Sam repeated, nonplussed.

            “Yes.”

            Sam raised his eyebrows. Cas glanced from his expectant face to Dean’s still one. “Obviously I don’t mean _his_ blood.”

            “Obviously,” Sam said, his expression unchanged. “Do we know any other Deans ...?”

            “None that are mutual, but I did –”

            “Cas, get to the point. What do you mean Dean’s blood, but not Dean’s blood? It’s not like we’ve got any on ice.”

            “I know. This is where it gets complicated.”

            “You don’t say.”

            “You know how everything in this universe is strengthened by having a physical force? A corporeal incarnation?”

            “Cas, I swear, if you don’t spit it out –”

            Cas raised a placating hand. “All right, I’m sorry. It’s an intricately complicated issue I’m talking about, it’s difficult to explain.”

            “Try.”

            Cas took a breath and looked down at Dean. “From what we can gather, Dean is battling his demonic self, correct?”

            Sam nodded, unsmiling.

            “And his body is weakening as a result, correct?”

            “Go on,” Sam mumbled, his brow starting to furrow.

            “Well, then it makes sense to arm him via his body with fresh blood. But not any blood. Because since this fight is Dean versus Dean, I think we’d need to exchange as much of his blood as possible with his own exact mixture, only one that’s completely free of not only demonic trace elements but the memories as well.”

            Sam leant back in his chair, his mouth opening in shocked comprehension. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?”

            “Well, without reading your mind I can’t be sure what –”

            “Are you suggesting we go _back in time_ and ask Dean for a pint of blood?”

            “Actually I’m suggesting _I_ go back in time and ask Dean for blood.”

            Clearly, Sam was liking this plan less and less. “I thought you said time travel was dangerous and hardly ever done. You know how many times Dean and I’ve been sent back? Every time either of us ‘messes with the flow of time’, you or your buddies spend hours lecturing us over it! And, may I remind you, the only good thing that’s ever come of it was a box of phoenix ash!”

            “I know, Sam. But it’s the only thing I can think of to help him. And it’s not just a hunch. I believe it will work.”

            Sam ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up briefly at the back. “Well ... how far back are you thinking of going? It’s been almost two years since Dean got the Mark.”

            “Actually … I was thinking a lot further back than that.”

            “How far?” Sam looked as though he didn’t want to hear the answer.

            “1983.”

            There was a long pause as Sam stared at Cas with an unfathomable expression.

            “Why?” he said at last. His voice was low and gruff.

            “Because Dean was, and I’m sure you’ll agree, at his most innocent before Azazel came into your house in November. That should make his blood all the more potent. Theoretically I could go back to any year before your mother died, but time travel is difficult enough as it is, and my new Grace is untested in the matter. It certainly feels powerful enough to bring me there and back with the blood, but I don’t want to risk going back any further.”

            “Cas.” Sam looked as though he hadn’t heard a word of what he’d said. “You’re talking about going back and asking a _kid_ to give his blood to some strange man who just, what, appears in his room?”

            “Yes.”

            Sam threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “Cas! That’s insane! How the hell are you gonna convince him?”

            “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

            “But he’ll be a kid! Four years old! How much blood are you gonna take?”

            “Just a small vial full. Then I’ll be able to duplicate it and make as much as we need.”

            That seemed to placate Sam – for a moment.

            “Cas, this is nuts. What the hell is a four-year-old Dean gonna think of some random dude in a trench coat popping into his room asking for blood?”

            It took Cas a second to realise Sam wasn’t suggesting he leave the coat behind. “I can erase his memory when I’m done. Or convince him it’s a dream. I’ve thought about this a lot, Sam. It must be done.” He hesitated. “But, Sam, I won’t be able to change anything. Certain events in time are fixed, and any attempt to alter them could prove catastrophic.”

            Sam looked up at him, his expression miserable. “Couldn’t you just go back and stop him taking the Mark from Cain?”

            “No. I thought about that, too, but Cain is well shielded. I’m not even sure how Dean and Crowley found him. I’m sorry. This is our last hope, Sam. I have to go back to 1983.”

            Sam opened his mouth to argue again but then closed it with a frown. He glanced to Dean. He was silent for a long time, thinking it over.

            “All right,” he said at last, his voice heavy. “If you think it will save him, do it.”


	65. 1983

            Cas stumbled as he landed in October 1983. He had aimed for the twentieth, but the night air smelled more like the twenty-seventh. Oh well, close enough. And still far enough from Azazel’s arrival that his visit should go unnoticed by any angels watching the prophets’ visions.

            Taking a moment, he examined his Grace. It was depleted, certainly, but he didn’t feel the extreme exhaustion he usually did when he flew through time. His new man-made Grace continued to astound him. Satisfied that he had the power to return to the Bunker the same night, Cas looked around.

            He had come to an admittedly ungraceful stop beside a leafless, twisting tree in a perfectly mowed lawn in Lawrence, Kansas. He spied the house number and smiled. This was the place. He looked up. One upstairs light was on, and Cas could hear the myriad frequencies of a TV playing somewhere on the ground floor. Judging by the stars, he guessed it was between nine and ten at night. Dean should be sleeping.

            In a flurry of strong wings, Cas landed nimbly and silently in the young boy’s bedroom. A nightlight shone gently on the bedside table. Crayon pictures of the house and family were tacked to the wardrobe doors, and action figures were neatly positioned on what Cas assumed was a toy chest. A plastic racing track lay in the centre of the free space at the foot of the bed.

            The covers were nestled around a mop of bright blond hair on the bed. The ear of a brown teddy bear was just visible from Cas’s position by the door. He walked forward on silent steps until he stood by the bedside table, towering over the tiny boy breathing deeply, thoroughly snuggled into the covers. The bear’s snout was tucked under the boy’s chin, and one little hand was curled around its round head.

            Cas blinked. He knew the boy he had come to see would be a surprise, but he hadn’t expected this. The image before him seemed irreconcilable with the Dean Winchester he knew. It was both bizarre and depressing to know that this little boy who held so tenderly onto his toy and who slept so soundly under thick blankets would grow into a man who spent his life killing monsters and fighting Heaven and Hell.

            Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Cas leant forward and gently shook the young boy’s shoulder. His eyelids opened and a few seconds later awareness lit the round green eyes. He looked up at Cas and froze.

            “Hello, Dean.” Cas smiled warmly. “Don’t be afraid. My name is Cas. I’m a friend.”

            Never breaking eye contact, Dean pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes flicked uncertainly from the door and back to Cas.

            “It’s okay, Dean. Your mother and father know I’m here,” he lied fluently. “And I won’t stay long. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Do you mind?”

            Still looking more frightened than Cas liked, Dean nodded very slowly.

            Trying to remember how children worked, Cas glanced around the room, wanting to do something to alleviate the boy’s fear. He spied a rip at the neck of the bear Dean clung to. Cas nodded to it.

            “Can I see your bear for a moment?”

            Dean shook his head, squeezing the toy tighter into his chest.

            “I see his neck is br – sore,” Cas corrected, remembering from somewhere that children like it when you anthropomorphised their favourite toys. “I could heal him for you, if you’d like.”

            Dean’s wide eyes flicked from bear to angel and back. “You could?” he whispered.

            “I could.”

            “Mommy said she’d fix him on the weekend.”

            “I could fix him now for you. What’s his name?”

            “Mikey.”

            Cas tried to ignore the irony. “If you let me see Mikey here, I can heal his neck.”

            Cautiously, Dean held the treasured companion out to the angel. Cas took it with a smile and passed his hand over the rip, commanding the fibers to mend. Dean’s eyes widened even further in shocked delight as he saw his stuffed friend magically made whole again. Cas returned the bear to Dean’s waiting arms, feeling his cheeks begin to twinge slightly from smiling. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

            “Thank you, Cas!” Dean exclaimed, crushing the bear in a fierce hug. “How did you _do_ that? Are you magic?”

            “Not exactly,” Cas whispered, subtly reminding Dean to keep his voice down. “I’m an angel.”

            He had expected Dean to look confused or scared or even disbelieving. He had not thought the boy’s face would light up with pleasure.

            “You’re my guardian angel, aren’t you?” he asked, beaming.

            Cas felt a warm flurry quiver his heart. “Yes, Dean. I am.”

            “Mommy told me about you.”

            “She did?” That was highly unlikely.

            “She always says angels are watching over me. She meant you! She musta forgotten your name, though. I won’t. You’re bigger than I thought, and how come you’ve got no wings?”

            Cas chuckled. “I do have wings. They’re just invisible except to other angels.” And demons and several other creatures, but best not overcomplicate the matter.

            “Are they big?”

            “They’re very big. If I stretched them out fully, they wouldn’t fit in your room.”

            Dean looked from one wall to the opposite one, his mouth open, awe-struck. _“Cooooool!”_

            Cas chuckled again, a little more loudly this time. This was all very un-Dean Winchester-like.

            He sat down on the edge of the bed, confident now that he had gained the boy’s trust. “Dean,” he began, his voice growing serious. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

            “What favour?”

            “Well,” he said, wondering how to explain this. “I have this friend. He’s my best friend, actually, and he means a great deal to me. And he’s sick. Very sick. I want to help him get better, and the only way I can do that is with your help.”

            “How? I’m not a doctor. I dunno howta make people better.”

            “It’s not something you need to know. It’s something you can do.”

            “What?”

            “You can let me take a little bit of blood.”

            Dean blinked. “Like when the doctor took some with a needle?”

            “Yes, but I won’t need to use a needle.”

            “I don’t like needles,” Dean confided.

            “Neither do I,” Cas agreed, remembering extracting traces of Gadreel’s Grace from Sam and the demon cure.

            Dean looked uncertainly down at his teddy bear, twisting its ear in his small fingers. “Why does your friend need my blood? Why can’t he have yours?”

            Cas smiled. A smart child. He thought quickly, trying to see a way to explain it. In the end, he settled on a version of the truth. “Well, you see, Dean, I’m from the future.”

            “The future?” Dean’s eyes widened again, glinting slightly in the soft glow from the nightlight.

            “Yep. And this friend of mine, well, in the future, you and he are ... very close.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “His name is Dean, just like you.”

            “Is Sammy our friend too, in the future?”

            Cas smiled. “You’re the best of friends. Sammy” – the nickname felt odd on Cas’s tongue. He decided halfway through that he would not be saying it again – “is the one who asked me to come here tonight and see if you’ll help our friend get better.”

            “Well,” Dean said slowly, fiddling with the bear again. “Is Dean really, _really_ sick?”

            “Yes, he is,” Cas confirmed sadly. “To be honest, Dean, it’s a matter of life and death.”

            “Oh.”

            “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice. But I can’t stand to see my friend so ill any longer. Neither can Sam.”

            Dean stared down at his bear, his small brow furrowed as he thought it through. He looked sideways to the bedroom door, then, at last, he turned his gaze up to meet Cas’s. “Okay, Cas.”

            Relief flooded through Cas. He let out a deep breath. Reaching out a hand, he laid it gently on Dean’s small shoulder.

            “Thank you, Dean. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

            Dean’s smile faded quickly. He held out an arm, his lip quivering. Drawing the vial from his coat pocket, Cas held the tiny hand in his large one, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

            “Don’t be scared, Dean,” he said softly. “You won’t feel a thing.”

            In the blink of an eye, the small vial was filled with deep red blood. Cas stowed it away quickly in his coat and looked back to Dean.

            “Is that it?” he said, his voice oddly tearful.

            “Yes, that’s it. What’s wrong, Dean?”

            Dean sniffed. “How long do I get?”

            “How long do you get to what?”

            “Until I die.”

            Cas’s guard flew up instantly. “What?”

            “You said it was a matter of life an’ death. So ... how long do I got?”

            Understanding, Cas’s shoulders slumped as the tension rolled off. He let out a brief chuckle. “No, Dean. You’re not going to die from this at all. That’s not what I meant. But now, thanks to you, my friend will be able to get much better. But you’re not going to die.” Cas couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled this much.

            “I’m not?”

            “Nope. You’re going to live for years and years and do so many great things, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

            Dean’s expression lifted. Halfway into a smile, a great yawn interrupted him.

            “I should probably let you get back to sleep.”

            “Okay, Cas. Are you sure your friend will be okay now?”

            “Yes,” Cas lied through his teeth. “Thank you, Dean.”

            As Dean snuggled back under the covers, he asked Cas around another yawn, “Can angels only watch over one kid at a time?”

            “No, why?”

            “I just wanted to know if you’d look out for Sammy, too. He’s only little and Mommy and Daddy say he’ll need lots of help to grow up big and strong.”

            Touched and not remotely surprised, Cas smiled. “I promise you, Dean. I’ll watch out for your little brother.”

            Dean smiled a tight-lipped grin as he repositioned Mikey under his arm. Cas rose to his feet and awkwardly pulled the overs up to Dean’s chin.

            “Can you do me one more thing, Dean?” he whispered.

            “What?”

            “Can you keep tonight a secret?”

            “Can I tell Sammy?”

            “Sure. You can tell Sam. But just Sam, okay?”

            “Okay.” He yawned again. Cas straightened and headed for the door. A final whisper made him turn. “Hey, Cas?”

            “Yeah, Dean?”

            “Will I see you again?”

            Cas glanced at his shoes before answering. “Yes, Dean, you will. But not for a long time. I’ll be watching over you, though. I promise.”

            “Thanks for healing Mikey, Cas.”

            “You’re welcome. Thanks for healing my friend.”

            “You’re wel –” He yawned again, his voice growing sleepier by the minute. “Welcome. Tell Dean I say get well soon.”

            “I will. Goodnight, Dean.”

            “Night, Cas.” The words were a soft sigh as the young Dean Winchester buried his face into his bear. His eyes were already closed and even as Cas watched him, his breathing slowed to the steady rhythm of sleep.

            Cas lingered by the door for far longer than he needed to. In a few short weeks, this sweet boy’s life would change forever. He would set out on a road that led to him becoming the warrior hunter Cas had pulled from Hell. He would experience pain and heartache far beyond anything any one man deserved.

            Cas longed to fly forward a few weeks and kill Azazel before he could infect Sam, but he knew it would be pointless. If Azazel hadn’t come, then Sam and Dean would have grown up as normal boys. By the time the apocalypse came, they would be untrained and defenseless against Michael and Lucifer. Cas sighed heavily. He would give anything to spare his friends some of their hardships, but he knew that this time, he had no choice. Like it or not, it was for the greater good that Sam and Dean Winchester had been raised as they were, into this ancient war. Without them, the world would burn.

            With a great sigh and a final, sorrowful glance to the mess of blond hair sticking up in disarray above the covers, Castiel turned away from the boy who would one day be a hunter, extended his wings and summoned his Grace. It was time to return to the present.


	66. Dean

            Mary took Dean through memories he could hardly believe he’d forgotten, and some he’d rather forget. His first hunt, Sammy’s first hunt. His last hunt with John. Being minded by Bobby. Minding Sam. Nights in the Roadhouse. His days with Lisa and Ben. The first time John came home hurt from a hunt. First time Sammy came home hurt from a hunt. The night Sam left for Stanford, the night Dean brought him back. The last time Dean saw his father before taking the long drive to Serra Mall. Sam and the Demon Trials. Charlie. Jodie. Kevin. Cas. Tessa.

            It was like being shown his greatest hits and hurts in inescapably vivid clarity. Some of them made him want to turn away and block his ears, but his mother was there beside him for every second. She held his hand, silently comforting him, urging him to watch his younger selves, see how tenderly he cared for his family. It was uncomfortable for Dean to watch himself, difficult to extricate himself from the emotions of the memory. And of what would follow them.

            As Mary led him through memory after memory, some that made him want to weep with joy, others with shame, he began to feel a new strength spread slowly through him. Before, he had felt hopelessly week, kept going only by Mary’s support and his burning desire to be with her, to see her for as long as he could. When he looked down at himself, he saw his bones press against his skin as though determined to break free. Now, slowly, his muscle was returning. Something warm and comforting was seeping through him, strengthening him, lifting his soul out of the darkness that tugged against his mind and making the shadow phantoms seem less threatening. His fear was slowly being consumed by the strange warmth, replaced by an odd calm and stillness he associated with the aftermath of total emotional exhaustion. The sinister presence he felt lurking just out of sight seemed farther away, smaller.

            Not understanding what was happening to him, but reasonably sure he could believe in this odd new sense of security, Dean stood a little straighter, held his head a little higher. He began to feel the power of his limbs again, began to remember his training, how to fight, how to defend. He met each new memory with curiosity rather than apprehension. Mary’s smile became wider and there was a twinkle in her eye Dean hadn’t seen before, as though she were laughing at some inside joke.

            Mary squeezed his hand as the last memory began to fade around them. The Panic Room materialised slowly surrounded them, replacing the old church where Sam had tried to cure Crowley. The room was brighter than when they’d left it, lit with a warmer yellow light than Dean remembered. A cot stood in the centre of the Devil’s Trap, the blanket tucked neatly in place around the thin mattress. Mary sat down, gesturing for Dean to take the space beside her. The springs let out a groaning squeak as they took his weight.

            “I’ve shown you all I can now, Dean. Soon I’ll have to leave.”

            Dean felt tears prickle beneath his eyelids. The old ache began to throb in his chest. “Can’t you stay?” he whispered.

            Mary smiled sadly and reached up to run her fingers through his thick hair. “I wish I could, Dean, but I can’t. I’ve done what I came to do. The rest is up to you.”

            Dean closed his eyes and leant into her touch. “I don’t want you to go,” he mumbled miserably, suddenly feeling very young. “There’ so much ... so much I wanna say, so much I know Sam wants to know. We miss you.”

            Her thumb stroked his cheek gently. “I know, sweetheart. I miss you too. And I love you more than I can say. Which is why I have to leave you.”

            Dean opened his wet eyes and stared at her, confused. “Why?”

            She withdrew her hand and fixed him with a serious gaze. “Do you understand now why I showed you all I did? Why I’m here?”

            Dean frowned. “I ... I think so,” he said uncertainly.

            “Tell me.”

            “A lot of what you showed me ... they were things I’ve been thinking about for years. The mistakes I’ve made, the people I’ve lost. Others were things I didn’t even know I remembered. Good things. Things I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

            “Is that all?” she prompted, her eyes searching.

            Dean took a deep, shuddering breath. His voice quavered. “I know I’ve done a lot of bad. I’ve screwed up so many times, hurt so many people. People I care about. I never wanted any of it to happen. But,” he continued, blinking the blurry wetness from his eyes and looking up at his mother, “but it wasn’t all on me. Before this last year ... before - before the Mark, all I ever wanted was to feel safe, to keep my family safe. Most of the time I couldn’t, even with Sammy. I thought I let them all down. And sometimes I did, I know, but not always. It wasn’t always my f-fault. So much of the crap I carry ... it’s not mine to keep. Just because I live in this world full of evil doesn’t,” he hesitated, knowing he had to say the words yet somehow afraid to voice them. “It doesn’t mean I am too.”

            Mary was smiling that tight-lipped smile he loved, the one that looked as though it couldn’t contain her happiness. She reached up and pulled Dean into her arms, hugging him close as he sniffed and blinked away the tears. Just as in the meadow before, he had no defense in this twilight zone. He was as exposed as a raw nerve. His mother’s embrace was a salve, helping him even out his breathing.

            “My brave boy. I am _so_ proud of you. Never doubt that, Dean, not for one second. I know I didn’t want you or Sam to have this life, but what you’ve made out of it, all the good you’ve done ... no mother has ever been prouder. My boys, the heroes.”

            Dean smiled against her shoulder, holding her tightly.

            “I know how hard this is for you, Dean. Believe me, I do. For one who acts so tough, you bruise easily. You feel the pain of those around you, and when they’re people you love, you do everything you can to ease it, even if that means you carry it for them. You take their guilt and shame as your own without thinking to spare them, even if only in your own head. You protect them even when they’re gone. You’ve been protecting everyone else ever since you were a baby, my sweet love.” She pulled out of the embrace and took his face in her hands. Her own cheeks were streaked with tears, yet her voice remained steady and sure.

            “But now it’s your turn, Dean.”

            “What?” His voice sounded so small, so young.

            “It’s time you stopped being everyone else’s shield, Dean. It’s time you put yourself first. It’s time you woke up.”

            “What do you mean?” The fear he felt creeping up inside him bled into his voice. He searched her face for answers, his brow furrowing.

            Mary pressed her forehead against Dean’s, her hand on his cheek. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes. He savoured her touch.

            “Please,” she whispered fervently. “ _Please_ , Dean, take care of my little angel like you do everyone else. Love him the way you do Sam. He’s so kind, so brave. He deserves to feel safe. He deserves to feel loved. Take care of him the way you did Sam. Please, Dean, try to see yourself the way I do. The way Sam does. You are worth so much more than you believe. It’s time you learnt to think differently.”

            She pulled back and nodded to the door of the Panic Room. Dean turned.

            A small boy stood uncertainly in the doorway, eyeing Dean as though waiting to see if he’d attack. One tiny-fingered hand held on to the doorjamb, ready to push against it if he had to run. There was no mistaking the child’s bright blond hair and rich green eyes. Dean was staring at himself.

            He turned to Mary. “Is this a memory?”

            “No, Dean,” she said quietly. “This is you.”

            The little boy’s eyes flicked from Dean to Mary with the air of someone trying to judge if they could make it passed a wild dog without being bitten. Suddenly, the boy pushed off from the door and ran, blond hair bouncing, into Mary’s arms. She scooped him up and hugged him, kissing his forehead through his fringe. As one, they looked to Dean.

            “Please, Dean. Just try. Not for me. For you. You are so precious to me. I can’t bear to see you so hurt. Not my little angel.”

            Dean stared at himself in disbelief. Had this little boy been hiding inside his mind all these years? Had he seen all Dean had done? Suddenly, like a lake breaking its dam, memory after memory flooded through Dean, whipping past in dizzying speed. Everything Mary had shown him and hundreds more besides flashed behind his eyes as he stared into his own, young eyes that held a silent accusation.

            This was the figure he had sensed in the clearing when he first arrived in this place. This boy who couldn’t yet be seven was the one the demon had been chasing, the reason the phantoms had come for Dean. They distracted him, paralyzed him with fear and pain so he couldn’t help the child escape.

            He had seen everything. He had been there for every gunshot, every flick of the knife, every battle. Every tear. Dean had made him watch, he’d shoved a gun in his hands and called it protection while he charged into the fray without a shield.

            Dean didn’t need the boy to speak to understand the blame in his eyes. _You’ve protected Sam all these years, but you never once thought of me. It’s your fault that I’m hurt, that I’m scared, that I’ve always been so alone. It’s your fault._

            Tears flowing freely down his cheeks, Dean slid off the bed and knelt before his mother and six-year-old self. He took the child’s hand gently in his own and looked up into the bright green eyes.

            “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice deep and shaking. “I am so sorry I forgot about you, that I left you all alone in the dark. I’m sorry I drowned you in silence and drink, I’m sorry I put everyone else before you. You’re just a kid; you didn’t deserve any of this. None of this is your fault. I kept sacrificing you ‘cause I thought it would keep you safe, but I was wrong. I just let my own fear poison you when I should have protected you from what I do. I’m so sorry I failed you. You deserve so much more. You deserve to be saved.”

            Dean stared into the boy’s eyes for a long moment, and the boy stared back without blinking. Dean watched as the accusation and anger drained from the green-eyed gaze. A broad smile replaced it, lifting the rounded features and in one fluid movement, the young boy slid to the floor and wrapped his skinny arms tightly around Dean’s neck. Dean hugged him back, enveloping him in his strong arms, burying his face against the scrawny shoulder.

            “I’m so sorry, Dean,” he whispered. “We deserve to be saved.”


	67. Fighter

            “C’mon,” Dean said, getting to his feet. “It’s time we got outta here.”

            He held his hand out to the young boy, who took it, smiling. Dean looked up to his mother.

            “So how do I get out of here? How do I wake up?”

            Mary was beaming at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “You have to get back to the surface.”

            “Then what?”

            “I think you know,” she said.

            Dean thought for a moment. Then he grinned. “The Impala.”

            Mary nodded, still smiling broadly.

            “I’m guessing it’s not gonna be easy, getting up there?” He gestured upwards, his other hand tightening protectively over the small fingers held in his.

            “No.” Mary rose to her feet. “But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing out there is any match for my son.”

            Dean grinned and turned for the door. He paused. Mary hadn’t moved. Turning back to her, he said, “You’re not coming with us, are you?”

            Still smiling, still crying, Mary shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t.”

            Dean stared at her, taking in every detail. “Will I see you again?” His voice was steadier than he thought it had any right to be.

            Mary blinked away tears and chuckled. “Stranger things have happened, Dean, you of all people know that. But whether you see me or not, I’ll always be here. And I will always, _always_ love you, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean strode forwards and pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder.

            “I love you, Mom,” he mumbled, eyes screwed shut as he hugged her fiercely. “Every day of my life, I’m proud to be your son.”

            Mary rubbed his shoulders. “Just as I’m proud to be your mother. I love you, Dean. Take care of my little angel, won’t you?”

            Dean nodded against her shoulder. He held her tight for another long moment. Then, with a deep breath, he let her go. She put a hand to his cheek one last time, wiping away his tears. Then she pulled him close and kissed his forehead.

            “Give Sam my love.”

            “I will.”

            “Goodbye, Dean.”

            “Bye, Mom. I’ll miss you.”

            Not trusting himself to stay any longer lest he lose the resolve to leave, Dean kissed her briefly on the cheek and turned to go. He reached out for the boy’s hand, and together they crossed the threshold out of the Panic Room.

 

            It was difficult maneuvering through the debris of Bobby’s house, but Dean didn’t let go of the small hand held tightly in his own for a second. He was on high alert, waiting for whatever obstacle was waiting for him.

            They made it out of the house without incident, and emerged with relief into the wide sweeping clearing that surrounded it, guarded stoically by the gently swaying pines. It was still dark, but the air smelled clear and fresh, and the first tentative light of dawn was just visible through the trees. Following his instinct, Dean headed for the sun, pulling the child through the trees behind him, keeping a firm grip on the little hand.

            He needed to find the road. There had to be one. Twigs snapped and leaves shook as he ran by, but he ignored them. He kept moving, slowing only to help the young boy over fallen logs and wide streams.

            Dean could feel something stalking them, following them just out of sight. He knew what it was.

            It was waiting for them when they broke through the last line of trees, standing as confidently as ever between them and the road behind it. Dean took a step in front of the child, shielding him with his body.

            “Honestly, Dean, I was betting you wouldn’t make it this far. I gotta say – I’m impressed.”

Dean scowled at the demon, staring directly into the deep, black eyes. “Move.” His voice was low and deadly serious.

The demon laughed. “Sure, yeah, I’ll get out of your way just because you tell me to. ‘Cause that’s gonna happen.”

            “Last chance,” Dean warned.

            “No, Dean, _I_ was your last chance. I was your last chance at having a life of your own, of being in control, of finally fighting for the winning side.” The demon’s voice had lost its joviality. His words were biting, cutting through the air like blades. “I gave you the life you’ve always wanted, and you let your dear brother burn it away.”

            “You’re right,” Dean said casually. “Which is why I know you’re not real. You’re dead. Sam killed you. He burned you right outta me. You ain’t got no power anymore, you black-eyed little bitch.”

            The demon faltered for less than a second. When he spoke, his voice dripped with venom.

            “You think so, do you, Dean? You think I’m done playing with you?” He laughed. It sounded alien, inhuman. “If you make it back, what do you think is gonna happen? You think you’ll just magically be over everything you did last year? You think just because you had a heart-to-heart with mommy dearest, you’ll be fixed?” The mocking tone turned deadly once more. “You say I have no power, but boy, you are wrong. I will be waiting for you, every time you close your eyes. I’ll make you fear the dark like you never have before. All those things we did together? All that fun we had? Those memories are never gonna fade, Dean. I’ll make sure of that. I will kill you from the inside. I will burn away your very heart. We’ll see who’s powerless when you’re alone in the dark.”

            Dean clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. He felt the tiny hand in his squeeze reassuringly, and he squeezed back.

            “You can try, demon,” he spat. “But you forget, I’ve been doing this all my life. I’ll deal.”

            The demon laughed derisively. “Sure, Dean, you’ll muddle through. Because you think this is gonna be like every other time you screwed up and hurt someone. Don’t you realise everything we’ve done? You think all those demons - that Michelle - will just hand up the knives and decide to be good little born-again demons? You think the Veil’s gonna fix itself? You think all those souls we stole will just fly back to their meat suits? No, Dean. What you’ve started, you can’t stop it.”

            “Well, I’ll try!” Dean growled. He searched his peripherals, looking for a weapon. There was nothing but dried leaves and twigs. If it came to a fight, it would be fists against fists.

            “Once you’ve seen the world through black eyes, Dean, you never forget it. You can’t beat me. You wanna know why, Winchester? Because _I’ve_ already beaten _you_.”

With a roar of rage, Dean threw himself forward, hands outstretched, reaching for the demon’s ugly smirk. Whooping in triumph, the demon lunged for Dean and they met in mid-air with a thud. Leaves leapt to the air as they crashed to the ground, each trying to gain the upper hand as fists flew and twigs snapped beneath them.

            “That’s it, Dean!” the demon roared savagely. “See if you can beat me! See if your precious _humanity_ can beat a power older than ghosts and guns! See if you can beat _hate!_ ”

            Dean lashed out viscously and felt blood splatter across his fist. The demon grunted in pain and Dean took advantage of his opponent’s daze and pinned him to the leaf-strewn ground, straddling him. He rained down punch after punch on his demon’s face. Blood erupted from the smooth skin, matting the hair and beard to the paling complexion. One eye swelled shut. Lips split, cheeks bled, yet the black eyes never wavered from Dean’s.

            As Dean paused, breathing heavily, the demon spoke in a venomous whisper. “You can’t kill me, Dean. Not without destroying yourself.”

            “Watch me.” Dean smiled as he tightened his fist. “You are nothing, you demonic son of a bitch. And I am _Dean_ friggin’ _Winchester!”_

            Dean punched the demon again, alternating hands, building his rhythm. Each word he spoke was accompanied by a fierce blow to the demon’s bleeding face.

            “I – am – what – monsters – have – night – mares – about!”

            The demon’s head snapped from one side to the other.

            “I – stopped – the – goddamn – _apocalypse!”_

            The demon’s eyes began to glaze over.

            “I – have – killed – more – of – your – kind – than – I – can – count!”

            The demon’s struggles were weakening, its hands losing their strength as they clawed futilely at Dean’s legs.

            “I – am – a – _hunter!”_

            The black eyes slid shut and the demon went limp.

            “I – am – Dean – _Winchester!”_ he roared as, with one final, mighty blow, he heard a loud crack as the demon’s head jerked to the side for the last time.

            Dean knelt panting over the body. His chest heaved. His knuckles throbbed with each pounding beat of his heart. The demon’s face was a mask of crimson beneath him. It wasn’t moving.

            Shaking slightly, Dean staggered to his feet. He looked up. The green-eyed boy was standing stock still under the closest pine, clutching the bark, his eyes wide and staring.

            “You okay?” Dean asked, his voice sounding harsher than he meant it to.

            The boy nodded, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Dean leant down and rubbed the blood from his hands on to the demon’s clothes. Once they were clean, he straightened up.

            “You beat him,” the boy said, his smile growing wider. Dean glanced down to the limp figure at his feet. The chest was still rising feebly every few seconds. Dean wondered if it had been right, if it even was possible to truly kill it. Whether it was or wasn’t, this round went to Dean.

            “Yeah,” he huffed, smiling. “Guess I did.”

            He looked around to the two lanes of rain-slicked asphalt glinting docilely in the light of the rising sun. The Impala was waiting a few yards down the road, resting over the streaked yellow line that bisected the highway. Dean smiled. That hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

            He turned back to the child, his grin spreading. “What d’you reckon, kid?” he asked. “You ready to wake up?”

            Beaming, the boy ran forward and took Dean’s hand.

            Dean ran his free hand over the length of the gleaming black car. “Heya, Baby,” he said softly, smiling.

            He opened the driver’s door and allowed the little blond to clamber in first, settling down in the passenger’s seat. Dean slid in after him and ran his hands fondly over the familiar steering wheel. The keys waited in the ignition, the chain swaying gently from side to side. Dean reached forward and turned it.

            The engine roared to life.

 

            In a bedroom in the Men of Letters’ Bunker, with a great, desperate breath, Dean Winchester opened his eyes. They were green.


	68. Epilogue: From the Ground Up

            Sam Winchester strode through the familiar corridors of the Bunker, a plate carrying an impressive grilled cheese sandwich held in one hand, two chilled beers swinging from the other. Doors flashed passed and tiles blurred as he swept by, his feet carrying him dutifully to his usual haunt.

            The garage lights were on, which was normal. They flooded the open chamber with brilliant illumination, making it the ideal place for work. The old classic cars silently watched the 1967 Chevrolet Impala parked in the centre of the open space. Two jean-clad legs stuck out from under the car. The staccato clanking of a wrench filled the room, the sound bouncing off the bare walls in gently diminuendoing echoes.

            Sam leapt lightly up the small staircase and walked over to the tiny fraction of free space on the table he and Cas had brought in for tools. They lay in haphazard order over the tabletop, some half-buried by their fellows. Sam slid the plate bearing the still-warm sandwich onto the sparse empty space, nudging the half-eaten burger with extra everything into a small pile of spanners.

            “Grub’s on,” Sam called to the legs under the Impala. “Want a beer?”

            Dean pulled himself free of the car with a grunt and got to his feet. His grey shirt was stained with black smudges, as were his hands. He picked up a rag from the table and wiped them clean. “Yeah, sure.”

            He took the opened bottle of El Sol from Sam and took a swig.

            “How’s the Impala coming?” Sam asked, putting his own bottle to his lips and leaning back against the table, watching his brother.

            “Slow,” Dean replied shortly.

            “Got enough parts?”

            “For now.”

            “Done with the chassis yet?”

            Dean took another drink. “Just about. Exhaust pipe needs some work, though. Pretty sure I can salvage it.”

            “Good.”

            They brought their bottles to their lips in unison, the fizzing liquid sloshing against the necks.

            Sam glanced back to the half-eaten burger. “You hungry?”

            “Not really.”

            “Made you a grilled cheese,” Sam said persuasively.

            The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched. He looked to the perfectly browned sandwich. “Thanks, Sammy.”

            Sam smiled at the return of the old nickname and took another swig of beer. It was deliciously cold.

            They drank in silence for a while, both gazing at the beloved car. It was looking far better, Sam thought. Apparently Cas had worked out most of the biggest dents and breaks while Dean was comatose, and in the two weeks since he’d woken up, Dean had already made noticeable progress.

            The wheels had been removed, their breaks and suspension now gleaming a healthy silver. Dean had buffed out any remaining dents so that, apart from the broken windows and the obvious need for a paintjob, the old car was looking like its old self at last.

            The same couldn’t be said of its owner. Sam watched his brother out of the corner of his eye as they drank their beers. Dean was still underweight, though, thankfully, not half as thin as the version Sam had met in the Panic Room. Dean’s fleeting appetite wasn’t exactly helping with the weight gain, but the work on the car was rebuilding the lost strength in his muscles. His skin was starting to look healthier, and though he was still pale, save the dark rings under his eyes, Sam could tell he was at last on the road to recovery. Physically, at least.

            Mentally, Sam wasn’t so sure. Dean had yet to volunteer to say anything. Whenever he did speak, it was in answer to a direct question. Judging by his willingness to offer more than the minimum number of syllables, Sam knew this was a good day. Most weren’t.

            Sam wasn’t sure how much of the ordeal Dean remembered. From what he could tell, Dean knew what had happened over the last year, but it seemed to Sam that the significance of it hadn’t hit home just yet. Dean was still absorbing it all, sifting through it. Although Sam was going mad not knowing what was going on in his brother’s head, he was – currently – content to wait and allow Dean the time to make sense of what he could.

            All Dean wanted to do for now was work on the Impala. He was silent and uncertain about some things, some memories, and generally just pretty out of it. Sam wondered if he might have some mild form of brain damage from his time in the coma. He and Cas had been sure to keep oxygen flowing through Dean’s cannula, but even so. It hadn’t exactly been a standard coma.

            Since Sam had no interest in the wider world just yet, and since he knew he was as desperately in need of some time off as was Dean, he just left his brother to his project. When he wasn’t tactfully badgering Dean to eat, Sam spent his time in the chair he’d brought into the garage, catching up on some non-work related reading. He’d already finished _The Wizard of Oz_ and was halfway through the first _Game of Thrones_. It was a welcome privilege to lose himself in a book, and he savoured the time he spent reading, comforted by the sounds of his brother working a few feet away.

            Cas split his time between the garage and library. He said he was researching ways to reopen Heaven and take down Metatron once and for all. Sam left him to it. He was happy to leave the world in the mess it was in for now. He’d earned some time off. Besides, Dean was in no shape to take on such a demanding job anytime soon.

            Dean set his half-empty bottle of beer on the table and returned to the Impala, wiping a stain from the wing mirror. Sam watched him, thinking.

            He didn’t know if Dean remembered what had happened to him when he was unconscious, and for once, Sam wasn’t going to ask. He decided instead to trust in Dean’s resilience, and to make it abundantly clear that he was available to talk to. After all, Dean had survived the cure, and the aftermath. All he needed was time.

            The nightmares were all that really worried Sam. Dean still looked exhausted, and his eyes bore the haunted look only recurring night terrors could cause. Sam hadn’t asked about them yet. He didn’t want to rush what was sure to be a slow healing process. Instead he feigned ignorance of Dean’s nightly terrors, and took to sitting on the edge of his brother’s bed every night throughout the worst of the screaming. Dean’s soul may have survived the cure and subsequent torture, but Sam knew better than most that souls took a long time to heal.

            As Sam took another, longer draught of cool beer, Dean glanced briefly in his direction.

            “Hey, Sammy?”

            Sam quickly turned his choke of surprise into a half-convincing cough. “Yeah?”

            “I’ve been thinking.”

            “What about?”

            Dean paused, wadding the oil-stained cloth into a ball and not looking at him. “Once I finish fixing Baby, I ...” He turned to face Sam, leaning back against the hood of the car. “I want to get back to work.”

            Sam raised his eyebrows. “You sure that’s wise?”

            Dean looked down to the cloth in his hands. “No.”

            “You should probably take it slow, Dean. You’re not at a hundred per cent yet.” _Far from it_ , he resisted adding.

            “I know. Believe me, I know. But, the thing is ... last year ...” Sam straightened. “Last year, I did a lot of bad –”

            “It wasn’t you, Dean, it was –”

            “The demon, I know. Except that demon was me, Sam. I was there.” He held up a hand to halt Sam’s arguing. “Just, listen to me. I set a lot of bad things in motion, things no one else knows about, so no one else can stop. Sooner or later I’m gonna have to clean up the mess I made. Not to mention Metatron and Heaven being closed.

            “I saw the Veil, Sam,” he said quietly, rubbing his already clean hands with the rag. “The souls ... they’re not meant to stay there so long. We’ve gotta help them.”

            Sam looked down to the bottle in his hand. He hadn’t told Dean the whole truth about his deal with Death yet. He knew they’d have to find a way to free the souls sooner or later if Death was to recant his claim on Dean’s soul. “I guess you’re right,” he muttered, swilling the last of his beer around the bottle’s base.

            “I know I’m not ... not fully right yet,” Dean went on. “Full disclosure, I’m not entirely sure if I ever will be.”

Sam looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

            Dean shrugged. “’S just a feeling, Sammy. I can’t explain it. I feel ... different.”

            “Well, that makes sense, you know – I mean, that cure took a hell of a lot out of you, it only makes sense that you feel weird for a while.”

            “I know. But it’s more than that. It’s like ...” Dean frowned, searching for the words. “It’s like something deep has changed in me, Sammy. And I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not.”

            Sam pushed himself off the table and went to stand beside his brother, leaning against the cool Impala. “I understand.”

            “Do you?” Dean asked quietly, still studying the oily rag.

            “Yeah. When I got my soul back ... I knew something was different.”

            Finally, Dean looked up at him. “You did?”

            “Yeah.”

            “You never told me that.”

            “There was nothing you could’ve done about it. Besides,” he said thoughtfully, “I knew it was something I had to figure out on my own.”

            Dean nodded beside him. “I want to get back to hunting, Sam. I need to get back to saving people.”

            Sam huffed, smiling. “‘Saving people, hunting things: the family business’?” he quoted.

            Dean smiled. “Yeah, something like that. I’m a hunter. I want to feel like one again.”

            “I get that.”

            A comfortable silence fell between them for a time.

            “Hey, Sam?”

            “Yeah, Dean?”

            “Thanks.”

            Sam looked around at him. “For what?”

            “For not giving up on me. I know I didn’t exactly make it easy on you. I know what you did to find me. To bring me back. I just want you to know I really appreciate it.” Dean met his gaze. “Really. Thank you.”

            Sam smiled. He nudged Dean with his shoulder. “Come on, what are brothers for?” That got a chuckle.

            “Apparently for hunting you down and pumping you full o’ blood, huh?”

            Sam laughed. “Guess so. That generally just saving your ass and having your back. And getting pie.”

            “Seriously, though. Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            There was a pause.

            “We got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we?” Dean asked, sounding subdued.

            “Yeah, we do,” Sam sighed. One supercharged god with a legion of new mindless angels, one Knight of Hell with an army of demons, and a sealed Heaven Sam had to break open or forfeit his brother’s soul. A lot of work. Sam drank the last of his beer in one swallow.

            Suddenly Dean broke into a grin. He looked up at Sam and said cheerily, “Well, at least it’s not likely Metatron has any demon clowns.”

            Sam stared at him in disbelief. “I knew you’d remember that! That was so not cool.”

            “Ah, come on, it was a little funny.”

            “He tried to kill me!”

            Dean sobered. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

            Still smiling, Sam bumped Dean’s shoulder again. “Jerk.”

            “Bitch.” Sam spied Dean grinning slightly out of the corner of his eye.

            “Well,” Dean said after a pause. “Demon clowns or no, I figure we’ve got a fighting chance of beating Metatron, and Michelle, if she turns up again.”

            “You do?”

            Dean looked up at him, a small smile twisting the corner of his mouth. He nudged Sam with his shoulder. “Sure I do. Look at our track record, Sam. You really think some jumped up old secretary is a match for the Winchesters?”

            Sam laughed and, to his delight, Dean joined in.

            The weight of anxiety Sam had been carrying in his chest all year was finally beginning to ease. He had done it. He’d brought Dean home, in more ways than one. Dean had pulled through his own private hell, and even Cas was better, nearby and armed with a brand new, eternal Grace. Just this once, everyone had lived. They were battered, sure, broken, yes, but they were alive, and they were together.

            Sam looked over to his brother, chuckling quietly beside him. His smile widened. They may have a lot of work waiting for them, and he had no reason to think the road ahead would be any easier than what lay behind, but the thought didn’t affect Sam’s grin. He had his brother back, and his angel. And if there was one thing this past year had taught him, it was that _nothing_ could stop a determined Winchester.

            Especially a Winchester with a sawn-off in his hand and a brother by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to everyone who read Son Of Cain, and to those who were kind enough to leave reviews! It really means the world to me and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it - though, maybe minus the frustrations of trying to translate Jensen Ackles & Jared Padalecki's acting nuances into words!
> 
> If you know someone who you think would enjoy this story, please share it around, and if you'd like to discuss it with me my inbox is open!
> 
> In case you're wondering, the story doesn't end here. Son Of Cain does have a sequel, one I'm looking forward to writing. I'll be focusing on an original story next, however, so it will be quite a long while before the sequel is written. I can't promise when it'll be ready, but I can promise feels, blood, and brotherly love beating the odds.
> 
> Thank you all, and happy reading!
> 
> Author out :)


End file.
